


The Road to Pasadena

by Acesara



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Omnic Crisis, Omnic Racism, Other characters mentioned - Freeform, Pre-Overwatch, Pre-Recall, Self-Acceptance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Transphobia, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, bit its very minor and concerns a side character, if enough people like this i'll continue, like early SEP days, lmao liberal use of original characters y'all hate me yet?, my sons have just barely met sooo, my sons in SEP, overwatch is just barely a thing being rumored about at this point, this started off as a drabble and here we are folks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-02-14 07:59:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13003323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acesara/pseuds/Acesara
Summary: The Omnic Crisis is in full swing; the state of California is months away from liberation but first, SEP must secure a foothold near Los Angeles; Pasadena. The road to Pasadena will be arduous; but elite members of the Soldier Enhancement Program have been sent to establish military presence in the area and eliminate any rogue omnic elements terrorizing the citizenry. They will complete their mission. Eventually.At least that's what a Lieutenant Reyes tells himself, rolling around fuckbutt nowhere; as he's stuffed into a Humvee the size of a high-schoolers souped up Jeep. Cooped up in a uniform that smells like four days of piss and ball sweat.At least the new guy is kinda cute.--------Early SEP days. Basically Jack and Gabe getting to know each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo I've never written romance or slow burn before but this idea wouldn't leave my head so now it's on the internet. Go figure. If enough people like this though I'll make it a full-blown slow burn s76 fic. Unbeta'd. Translations for generous use of military slang in endnotes.

At 0400 hours on the morning of 4 July the servicemen of Bravo Squad; belonging to SEP’s 1st Recon Division, are assigned the objective of securing the La Loma Bridge just outside of Pasadena; which-- with any luck, will serve as SEP’s launching pad for a full invasion and reclamation of Los Angeles. From Pasadena to LA, it’s a simple 20 minute Humvee drive. Or at least, it should be.

 

An army's worth of volatile and violent omnics stand in Bravo squads way. The existence of murderous human-hating omnics tend to cause travel delays.

 

But The Brass wants that bridge. They want Pasadena. And LA. And on good days, The Brass dares to want a shot at getting their whole goddamn country back.

 

Hopefully it's not wishful thinking.

 

A young Lieutenant Gabriel “Grim Reaper” Reyes rides in the rear passenger seat of his squads piece-of-shit Humvee; which is currently rolling down the dirty side roads of buttfuck nowhere. He’s covering his sector, one of his two shotguns resting on the open windows frame, his sights are levelled with the visible horizon. His eyes scan the middle distance for enemies and the ground for IED’s.

 

The person who previously took the front passenger seat is Corporal “Catcher” Yohannan, the squad's turret gunner. The top half of his body is above Gabe’s head now; he stands on a platform on what would be the ‘bitch seat’ on the back, his legs, boots and ass are constantly in everyone’s face. He’s pounding the side of the gun in a cadence of what he guesses is supposed to be some sort of rhythm. Yohannan is the youngest member of their crew; dusky-skinned with a baby face covered in sweat and dirt. The whole concept being where they are and doing what they do, does nothing to faze him. Gabe is sure this kid was some sort of sociopath in a past life. The kids a stone-cold killer. The kind who could get more emotionally compromised watching a tense game show at home rather than pumping a couple hundred rounds of pulsefire into a crowd of omnics; enemy or civilian. The kid would complain if he didn’t get enough dirt under his nails.

 

Their Communications Officer; currently at the wheel is Corporal “DD” Ryder. Frenetic, outspoken and the best damn radio operator in all of SEP; sits crooning out the lyrics to some last-century song;

 

“--and I’m just a teenage dirtbag, baby!

Listen to Iron Maiden, baby!--”

 

He wails and screeches out the chorus and cords while his open hands tap the steering wheel as if it's a hand drum. Atop his head of closely-shaven black hair sits a pair of Hello Kitty sunglasses, a women’s silk scarf hangs around his sunburned neck. The idiot is squinting into the path ahead. The Californian sun, on this searing summer day is blinding and bright. Yet the Hello Kitty glasses remain perched on his head, and not on his nose; where they could find infinitely more use.

  
  


To Gabe’s side is the squad’s most recent addition and new combat medic, Sergeant John “Jack” Morrison. Compared to the rest of his squad, the new guy is more quiet; reserved and contemplative. He sits with his back to Gabe, covering his own sector with the standard issue pulse rifle. Before they’d stepped off, Gabe made it a point to tell the guy he could retire that piece of shit-- use his own guns if he had ‘em. But Morrison had simply furrowed his brows and politely declined.

 

_ If it’s good enough to be issued to us at SEP training. It’s good enough for the field. _

 

That had been the reply. Short. Precise. And leaving no room for argument.

 

As a commanding officer, Gabe tried to make it a point to know his men inside and out, but this new guy is making it a chore to do so. Even so, Gabe almost doesn’t mind.

 

Despite Morrison seemingly having the personality of a saltine cracker--he’s attractive; Gabe begrudgingly relents in his mind.He has a head of closely shaved blond hair. Almond-shaped eyes shaded clear sky blue. A square jaw, and faint freckles dotting his slightly pointed nose. Whenever he does speak-- he does so with a lilting midwestern accent; one that Gabe can see Morrison is still desperate to try to mask;poor schmuck must’ve gotten the shit hazed out of him for it at boot camp.

 

The Humvee starts to shake as the terrain turns more uneven and gravel-ridden. Gabe feels the vibrations from the vehicle travel through his shotgun and up his arm. He rolls his shoulder in discomfort. He wishes Ryder would stop singing.

 

“ Her boyfriend's a dick   
And he brings a gun to school--”

 

Soon Yohannan comes in, shrieking out the ending lines to the verse as they try to harmonize. Still pounding the shit of turret in front of him. They sound like a couple of dying stray cats.

 

Hey. Good news. If SEP can’t defeat the omnic’s, maybe Ryder and Yohannan’s singing will do the trick. They seem to be doing a good job of killing the new guy, from the looks of it. Suddenly the Humvee jolts and everyone on the inside is jostled in and out of place.

 

“What the fuck was that?”, Gabe mutters alarmed, turning to Ryder.

 

“I---uhhhh, maybe another fucking rock? A  _ big  _ rock? Fuck I dunno, sir. My eyes ‘r on the road not the majestic fucking countryside we’re driving over.”

 

“I swear to God, DD, if you’ve damaged SEP property the repair money’s coming out of your military pension--”

 

“Haha. What pension? Ain’t none of us living long enough to build up a pension. That shit takes  _ commitment _ ! _ Investment _ , sir. That shit takes twenty years to build up--”

 

“We ran over a corpse”, Morrison states blankly, still covering his sector. It’s the first time Morrison’s spoken all day.

 

Ryder gasps; open-mouthed and dramatic; “he speaks!”

 

Gabe turns his head backwards. He squints into the trail of dirt and dust their vehicle leaves behind. All he sees is the shape of something human-shaped. Reflective and rounded.

 

“Nah a corpse wouldn’t have sent this piece a shit bouncing like it did. It was an omnic.” Yohannan interjects.

 

“ _ It _ was wearing civilian clothing,” Morrison growled.

 

“ _ It  _ isn’t human, sergeant. Can’t only corpses be human?”, Yohannan argues.

 

Ryder shakes his head. “Nah. Dead animals can leave behind corpses too, don’t forget about animals.”

 

Gabe feels the new guy bristle next to him. He’s heard enough.

 

“Alright--alright, enough. Lock it up guys.”

 

Ryder lets out a flat hum of acknowledgement. A few moments later and he’s back to smacking the steering wheel. Singing ‘Napalm Sticks to Kids’ under his breath. But Yohannan’s not done yet.

 

“Hey, new guy. Jack. Morrison.”

 

Gabe shakes his head, sighing under his breath. He sees more corpses--bodies up ahead. Most of them are omnics, a few humans. All wearing civilian clothing. All covered in a light coating of dry earth.

 

“What?”

 

“You know. We’ve been seeing alotta these busted up tin cans on the sides of the road lately. And the closer to Pasadena, I bet we’ll see even more.”

 

No response from Morrison.

 

“All of ‘em already dead, decommissioned and rusted as shit…….”

 

“And you know--you know what the worst part of that is?”

 

Morrison turns his head marginally.

 

“The worst part of it is that I won’t get to shoot any of ‘em.”

 

The Humvee falls silent after that. Ryder shifts uncomfortably in his seat and for once, senses the mood. He’s quick to try and change subject.

“--So uh, hey, new guy. Since we didn’t catch you during all the mushy-moto-bullshit icebreaker exercises at basic training-- we don’t know shit about you.”

 

Gabe doesn’t blame Morrison if he wants to keep it that way now.

 

“So uh. What branch didja serve in before the world went tits up?”

 

“I--”

 

“Or would it be tits down since the direction of ‘down’ is considered to be a negative…...and well the worlds all sortsa negative nowadays.”

 

“I served--”

 

Ryder yells up to Yohannan. “Eyo, Catcher. Whaddya think? Tits up or down?”

 

Yohannan doesn’t answer fast enough. Ryder asks the next best person.

 

“Uh hey, L.T. would you describe the world personally as going tits up or tits down ‘cause I can’t make an executive decision here and--”

 

“I  _ served  _ in the Air Force, with the 65th Air Rescue Squadron.” Jack grits out finally. 

 

Gabe turns to steal a quick glance of Morrison, who has retreated into the vehicle, no longer eyeing his sector. Gabe can’t blame him. It’s nothing but gravel, sand, and the occasional body and/or corpse for the next couple hundred klicks. 

 

The 65th…...Nellis AFB, huh? Up in Nevada. Good station-- from what Gabe’s heard about the place. Lot’s of important people with impressive specialties got posted there. Impressive for someone who looked as young and unassuming as Morrison. Even if he  _ was  _ a part of the--

 

“Ho-ly  _ shit _ , dude. You were in the  _ Chair Force _ ?! What were ya, some kinda pencil-pushin’, wine-sipping zoomie desk jockey?--”

 

“I was a CRO. A second lieutenant. I’d just commissioned and gotten my first duty assignment when the SEP recruiters came poking around.” Jack returns to eyeing his sector, his gaze goes distant.

 

“Jesus Christ man. I know SEP was desperate ‘n all but shit I didn’t think they’d resort to recruiting from the Air  _ Farce _ . Y’all ‘r almost as bad as the fuckin’ Coast Guard.”

 

Yohannan laughs overhead. Gabe has to resist the urge to snort.

 

“Oh yea? What branch were you?” Jack hisses.

 

“ _ Navy _ , baby. Hoo-fuckin’-yah man. Was in the SEAL prep school ‘n all that shit.”

 

Jack scoffs. “You’re a  _ squid _ ? You’re gettin’ on my ass about being an airman but here you are with a paid membership to Uncle Sam’s yacht club.”

 

Ryder chuckles good-naturedly. Gabe interjects.

 

“I always thought that was the Coast Guard.”

 

Jack shakes his head, turning to Gabe and grinning. “Nah. The coasties are a buncha puddle pirates; one step below the Air Force, one step above reservist weekend warriors and mall cops.” They lock eyes for a moment.  Gabe returns the smirk, shaking his head. Jack’s eyes do a quick inventory of his new squad leaders face. Gabe scrapes a hand across his mouth and face before he feels his cheeks go flush.

 

Ryder breaks the moment “Hey! Hey! It could always be worse, new guy. You could be a bullet-catching grunt in the Army like Yohannan up there--”

 

Above their heads. Yohannan starts slamming his open palm repeatedly onto the side of his turret. He bellows out a Humvee-rattling ‘Hooah!’ and lets off a few rounds of gunfire overhead. Gabe grimaces and gets on his personal comms; he reassures the other Humvees and squad leaders a few klicks behind that they aren’t engaging any mobiles or targets. It’s just Yohannan being himself again.

 

“--or a crayon-eating, jarheaded, boot-fuckin’-marine like our dear Grim Reaper over here.”

 

Jack seems taken aback, leaning over to get a better look at Gabe. Eyebrows raised. Eyes wide.“You’re a marine?”

 

Ryder cuts Reyes off before he can explain himself. “Ho no, flyboy. You don’t get it. He wasn’t your average devil dog. No  _ sir _ ! This guy was a  _ recon _ marine. They’re a  _ special  _ breed of the few, the brave, and the deathly stupid--”

 

Gabe finishes his transmission and snaps back, good-naturedly. “Hey. Watch how you talk about my beloved corps.”

 

Jack still gapes. Huh. Gabe guesses the rumors about how intense the recon marines are have only grown over the years. Gabe inwardly preens at the reverence and open respect Jack shows on his features.

 

Suddenly Ryder jams on the brakes; hard.

 

He slams his fist on the center of the wheel. He honks the horn. Gabe sees it through his peripherals; all skin and bones. A ragged scrap of fur shaped like a Coyote abandons its place in the pathway of the Humvee and darts into the brush on the roadside.

 

Jack and Gabe startle. Attentions snapped to Ryder.

 

“What the actual fuck, Ryder?” Gabe and Jack chastise in unison. They look at each other again, equally startled.

 

“Sorry sir...”, Ryder laughs nervously. “The damn thing was eating someone's fuckin’ dismembered arm. It was kinda gross man.”

 

Yohannan bemoans Ryder from above; like some psychotic disembodied voice of God. “Dude that shit was beautiful man! It’s  _ nature _ !  _ The circle of life  _ and  _ you  _ just disrupted it!”

 

Before Jack can slip back into his previous mood, Ryder demands his attention by reaching back and waving his hand in front of the medics face. His other hand barely grazes the wheel. The Humvee starts to move again.

 

“New guy--new guy-- you ever wonder what happens when you get outta the marine corps?”

 

“You get your brains back.”

 

Jack huffs out a laugh. Gabe pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing.

 

Then he feels it. A hesitant but solid hand on his shoulder. It’s Jack. With just a single glance the blonds way, he’s quick to take the hand back, almost looking a little guilty. As if he thought touching his commander warranted death. He wears a nervous but sly smile.

 

“Sir. I may be new to the unit but I advise that listening to Ryder for any longer may start to cause you serious harm--he’s dangerous that one, with that magical gift of his.”

 

Ryder shoots Jack and Gabe a flat frown through the rearview mirror.

“Everytime he speaks he kills brain cells.”

 

Gabe chuckles openly; belly-deep. Ryder lets out a dramatic gasp. He then braces both hands on the wheel, steps on the gas quickly, and gives the wheel a hard jerk to the left and  right before straightening out.

 

Jack smacks his head on the back of Ryder's seat and grunts in pain. Gabe just laughs harder.

 

\------------------

 

A dusty morning bleeds into an arid late afternoon. As of now, every member of Gabe’s squad has been awake for at least a full day and a half. Sleep is a precarious thing, no matter what part of the military owns your ass. At any moment, a rogue omnic cell could hone in and attack your position. Gas and chemical attacks are also common. You can’t exactly protect yourself from a world designed to kill you when your asleep; which makes slumber a dangerous mistress.

 

Gabe had received orders to put his men on some sort of rotation; have some sleep while others stay manning the sectors. However The Brass likes to forget that they’re already outnumbered and spread thin as it is. Everyone is needed for the fight.

 

However Gabe decides to  make an exception for their communications officer turned MTO, whose gone the longest without sleep. Ryder hasn’t slept in two days; and it shows. Ryder pops adderall and ripped fuel as if they’re skittles. He sits hunched over with the wheel in a death grip. His eyes are unblinking and so bloodshot it looks like someone poured rubbing alcohol into them. Ryder keeps himself away by spewing nonsense to his squad with brief intervals of off-tune singing in between. Everything from The Beach Boys “Kokomo” to Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi” is fair game.

 

 Morrison leans unfairly close to Gabe and whispers his fears and suspicions over Ryder’s health into Gabe’s ear. He’s about to dispel the medics worries and let Ryder keep doing him until  _ it  _ happens.

 

He  _ sings  _ again.

 

But this time, it’s  _ worse. _

 

“--let ‘em grow up to be doctors ‘n lawyers ‘n such--”

 

Fucking.  _ Country music _ . The bane of the young officers existence.

Gabe likes to think he’s a fair leader. Compared to the other SEP officers, he lets his men get away with murder. But he has a few golden rules that served him well in the Marines and now stand to serve him in SEP; No tobacco chewing in his vehicle. No smoking in the vehicle. And abso-fucking-lutely no fucking country music in his presence. Ever.

 

Ryder bellows.“Mama’s! Don’t let yer babies grow up to be cowboys!”

 

“-- _ Godamnit, _ Ryder! No fucking country songs…..okay?”

 

Yohannan screeches from below, “aw c’mon, sir. He was gettin’ to the best part!”

 

“Absolutely not. There are no best parts. It’s  _ country _ . That whole damn genre is an unnatural stockpile of  manmade sin.” Gabe glances over for validation from  a shifty-eyed Morrison.

 

Jack clears his throat nervously. “I don’t….see a problem with country music.”

 

Goddamn traitors. All of them.

 

“Yea,  _ sir _ . Besides,” Ryder rolls his shoulder, turning to shoot Gabe a look. “It’s not a  _ country  _ song-- it’s a  _ cowboy  _ song.”

 

Jack snorts again, hiding that unfairly cute grin behind his canteen of water.

 

But Gabe sits resolute. “That’s it, guy. Stop the Humvee. You’re getting some sleep.”

 

“Wh--”

 

“Nope. Stop the damn vehicle. I’m tucking your ass in the back. Morrison, move over.”

 

Morrison helps Gabe pry Ryder away from the wheel and due to their valiant team effort, they managed to corral the sleep-derived navy man into the back of the Humvee. They swaddle him in an emergency blanket cocoon and Gabe gives the order to Yohannan; if Ryder tries to escape sleep-- Yohannan is to kick him in the head until unconsciousness takes him like a vengeful wife takes an unfaithful husband home by the ear. Morrison blinks bewildered at Gabe’s strange orders but does nothing to protest it. Gabe takes the wheel with the blond by his side.

 

Before Ryder drifts off he darkly mutters under his breath.

 

“What was that, Ryder?”

 

“Do you want kids, sir?”

 

Gabe gets the Humvee going again. He shakes his head.

“Sure. One day. Yea. Why?”

 

Ryder’s eyes start to droop. “Daughter or son….?”, he yawns out.

 

Jack shoots Gabe a confused look, shrugging his shoulders.

 

Gabe considers the path ahead. “A son I guess. I grew up with nothing but sisters so yea. It’d be a nice change of pace.”

 

“Well, sir. I hope you get blessed with a son…..who likes nothing  _ but  _ country music.”

 

Jack buries his face in his hands. Begging Ryder to go to sleep. Ryder is deaf to the medics fruitless wishes.

 

“ ‘N hell…….cowboy music too……. _ shit _ ,sir I hope your son grows up to be a  _ cowboy.” _

 

_ “Corporal _ , go to sleep.  _ Please.”  _ Jack moans out to Ryder.

 

“ Fine.  _ Fine _ …….g’night  _ mom _ .” Ryder muses out, pursing his lips and batting his eyelashes at his medic. Jack sputters.

 

“Goodnight, Ryder.” Gabe says through gritted teeth.

 

“G’night daddy…” He says sing-songy. Still wearing that dumb look on his face. Jack sticks his head out the window, groaning harder.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so in addition to this being a very slow burn r76 fic i also reaally wanted to do some world building and lore expansion on the omnic crisis era and SEP since there is SO much potential! also i really like character studies and character building so yea thatll be in here too.sorry if this is moving kinda slow but it kinda plays into the trope of warfare being a game of 'hurry up and wait'
> 
> your comments give me life so lemme know how you liked this chapter!

It’s late evening when Reyes answers squad-wide comms. All mobile units are ordered to reroute their paths and meet at Camp Herald for emergency resupplies and briefings before any squads get any closer to the La Loma bridge, and Pasadena.

 

A comfortable silence took the Humvee over after Ryder passed out. Yohannan would call out possible movements along the roads. He would spot different civilians he saw staggering sore-footed down the winding roads--and assign point values he would give himself if he were able to kill them. A few times he requested permission to shoot some dogs he saw idling in the roadside brush; before Jack could finish frowning Reyes had shut Yohannan down.After that he went quiet, and was largely ignored.

 

Jack took the time to take stock of what scant medical supplies was left. By the time he had been reassigned to Reyes’ squad most of his inventory of biotic emitters, bandages, morphine had been used up. The rest of his previous SEP squad had met quick and violent ends in an ambush with some OR-14’s and Bastion units on the Canadian border. He hadn’t known them well, nor had he been particularly close to any of them--outside of the bonds of obligation the military is fond of fostering among strangers. 

 

Jack had still tried, and still failed to do his job as a medic and save them. Any of them. Jack looks around now. Ryder, who sleeps with the shaded Hello Kitty glasses on his face and a pink silk scarf around his neck. Yohannan, who licks his upper lips at the prospect of firing the turret he lovingly named Eileen. 

 

Reyes.  _ Reyes _ . He’s not all too sure what to make of the young lieutenant yet. But he doesn’t need to know them well at all to keep them alive. He’s determined to not let past mistakes repeat themselves. To not be dragged down and suffocated by past ghosts. After all, the war goes on--

 

“When we get to Camp Herald, stay on Ryder’s tail. You’ll be meeting with the rest of Bravo squad, and our sister squad. They’re a little weird to new people but Ryder’ll give you your ‘in’. In the morning you and the rest of the medics will be sitting in for the invasion briefing that command is giving to the officers. Then we should be Oscar Mike to Pasadena.”

 

“Understood sir.” He mumbles.

 

Reyes turns away from the wheel momentarily to stare Jack head on. He shoots him a slanted smirk and shakes his head. Jacks breath catches in his throat. The late noon sun bounces off of the walls of the narrow Humvee. Everything is faintly tinted in dusty yellows and pale oranges. The lights seem to sharpen the strong angles of Reyes chiseled features. A rectangular face, high cheekbones and a thick brow. Perhaps what unsettles Jack most are his eyes; the iris’ are a deep russet in color. They hold Jack in a steady gaze that screams authority and attentiveness. Even if they should be on the road ahead instead. Slowly his gaze shifts back and Jack slowly lets out a breath he shouldn’t’ve been holding.

 

“I know it’s gonna take some time for you to feel comfortable with us; our team-but you gotta start at least  _ pretending  _ to be comfy now. This division is real good at sniffing out discomfort, and right about now, you reek of it.”

  
  


“So please, in this Humvee, and around this team, call me Gabe. Everyone else does.”

 

“You got it s- _ Gabe _ .” Jack tries it out in a clipped, experimental tone. Gabe’s grip on the wheel readjusts slightly.

 

“So…...how does someone go from being an airforce officer to a nameless nobody of a medic in the dredges of the SEP?”

 

Jack puffs a laugh out sardonically, taking no barbs from Gabe’s observation. If it’s true, it’s true.

 

“How did anyone of us unlucky bastards get dragged into SEP? The recruiters take what they like, and I guess they liked me enough to pay off the air force for me.”

 

Gabe clicks his tongue against his teeth, shaking his head. “I’m not buying it, Jack. Service in SEP is voluntary. C’mon give me one good reason you signed on for.”

 

Jack pauses. His eyes scan the dusty path ahead.

 

“Good dental?”

 

They both laugh.

 

Gabe waits for another beat, he’s still laughing when he speaks. “Hey, if it’s a personal reason why you joined and I’m crossing a line or something, just give me the word and i’ll shut up about it.”

 

“Nah it- it’s not that. Just--I don’t--” Jack’s mind goes somewhere else for a moment. Just a moment. He can feel the sunlight filtering through the branches of his ma’s orchard; the warmth of a midwest summer is mild and gentle on his too pale skin. He doesn’t hear the rustling of the trees or his ma hollering to him from the next row of apple trees over but he lets it slide. Miles of nothing but fields of patchwork green and brown fields knitted together separate the family farm from the closest city, Bloomington. He doesn’t hear the birdsong but he lets it slide.

 

He can  _ almost _ hear Philip; his younger brother-- crooning out the lyrics to some shitty synthpop song blasting out of their pops’ beaten old pickup. He wears his big brother Jack’s blue eyes but his ma’s crooked grin. They sit, passenger and driver, bumping down the long pothole ridden road. Phil opens his mouth--he’s speaking; laughing even-- but the words don’t come out. He’s still pushing Jack. It’s not that bad though-- it must not be, because Jack feels himself smiling and laughing right along with him.

 

At a particular jab from Phil, Jack turns his head marginally to scoff and dismiss his brother and that’s when Jack sees it. An eighteen wheeler barreling down the lane. It’s speeding up in the opposite direction. Headed right for them.

 

Too fast.

 

It happens to fast.

 

In broad daylight, at 90 mph, the sounds and the world rush back into Jack’s ears, and god, he wish they hadn’t. He doesn’t let it slide.

  
  


Gabe snapping a finger in front of Jack’s face brings him back to it all. Jack is startled in his own skin. The gears in his mind are spinning. He opens his mouth. Scrabbling to search for the words to a quip or cover up that’ll save his skin from whatever judgment or curiosity Gabe will have plastered on his face. Instead all he sees is barely concealed worry edging on guilt.

 

“Hey. We-uh. We’re here. You were dazed out for quite a while-- didn’t want to disturb you. I already sent Yohannan to hep resupply the Humvee and Ryder’s waiting at comms for you.--”

 

_ Already here? _ Jack thinks with a sinking feeling. He blinks and surveys the world outside the cramped vehicle. Camp Herald. From what he can tell, it’s supposed to be a spartan desert camp. Perhaps a tent city is a label more closer to the truth. Fine, powdery sand covers everything from the tarps to the Humvee they’re currently sitting in in a light coating as if it were made of talcum powder. Between the glints of barbed wire and armed guards he can make out in the dark, Camp Herald looks like a prison camp.

 

_ How fucking long was I out? _ An even more unsettling thought. Normally it’s not that bad. The thoughts. The memories of  _ before _ . They’re usually not so intense. So  _ physical _ . They don’t suck him in so easily anymore. Jack shakes his head.

 

“Just uh--  go meetup with him. Get acquainted with the rest of the time and find somewhere to crash. We--we can talk later.”

 

Jack nods without meeting Gabe’s eyes. He can’t. He doesn’t want to.

 

“Understood,  _ sir _ .” Jack slings his rifle over his shoulder and exits without another word. 

 

He thinks he hears Gabe. No. Lieutenant  _ Reyes  _ call out to him. But if he did-Jack is none the wiser.

\-----------------------------------------------

A couple thousand SEP soldiers and supporting personnel from a variety of walks of life, military branches, and units live in hundreds of putty-colored tents encircled by a gravel road, lots filled with hundreds of military vehicles, and rows of shower trailers and hard-light powered generators fill the air with an incessant growling.

 

On the way to comms, he checks in at medbay and formally reports in as an adjoining medic to Reyes’ team. The head physician, a non-SEP navy man, welcomes Jack to the division and issues him a standard MOPP suit and gas mask in the event of chemical attacks in the days to come. He warns Jack that the entire camp is on alert for nerve gases that, as he put it, will “make you dance the funky chicken until you die”; blistering agents that will make your skin “burst up like Jiffy Pop”; and the risks of suffocating in your gas mask if you vomit. As the physician took down Jack’s information and gave him directions to the comms tent, he offhandedly mentions that  _ if  _ you vomit in your gas mask you “won’t be able to clear it through the drain tube of the mask. You’ll have to swallow it or risk choking on it. And that’s if the bastions don’t mow you down first!”

 

Jack leaves with a slight knock in his knees and a slightly upturned stomach.

 

As he enters the comms tent, a chorus of voices embrace him. 

 

“Hey-hey! Look who it is, my guys. Morrison! Over here!” Ryder screeches to him from the thick of it all, welcoming him over as if Jack is an old friend and not someone he met a few days ago.

As soon as he is within range, Ryder slugs a heavy arm around his shoulders and strong arms him into joining the commotion.

 

“About fuckin’ time you showed man, ya almost missed the rest of the crew.”

 

Jack goes to explain himself. But Ryder tramples over him verbally. Jack resigns himself to going quiet again.

 

“--Kay so. Now that you're  _ here _ .” Ryder jabs a knifehand at Yohannan; who sits with a few other soldiers cleaning out their dismantled turrets on their laps.Yohannan cleans the barrels and gears with rapt focus and speed. “You already know that creep. Yohannan. Our turret gunner. He’s gonna be a permanent fixture on the team  _ unfortunately _ . Dude hasn’t even gotten his  _ injections  _ yet. He hasn’t even been through the Gauntlet but for some reason he’s still here.”

 

The Gauntlet. The nice name SEP basic training. Several months of nothing but excruciating physical training, mind-numbing leadership building, and being prodded at with enough needles, syringes, and serums to make any human feel like an abused labrat. The nicest way Jack can relay the intensity and mercilessness of SEP basic to anyone is to deliver the beginning figures of recruitment: for every two hundred servicemen ‘recruited’ into SEP, only twenty live to see graduation and deployment. Key word--  _ live _ .

 

The idea of a non-SEP soldier serving with them here?  _ Now _ ? Is insulting to say the least. Jack makes a face that Ryder barks a laugh at.

 

Ryder swivels Jack around and points to another individual. He points to a tall woman conversing with a stout red haired man, leaning against some crates. The lantern lights strung around the tents insides seemed to illuminate her defined complexion of a dark, coppery gold. “ _ That  _ lovely human being is Monroe, the squad leader for Alpha; our sister squad. She took over after Parata got himself trampled by an OR-14.”

 

Jack crinkles his eyebrows, nonplussed by Ryder casually recalling the death of a fellow soldier.

 

“Don’t worry. Monroe’s the one that ripped the head right off the damn thing while it stomped his guts out.”

 

Monroe seems to hear her name being called, because she turns marginally--spotting Ryder and Morrison, she sends them a warm smile and nods her head in acknowledgement before returning to her own conversation. “Sometimes, I swear. Only  _ her  _ and Reyes are the only officers that don’t have their heads surgically implanted up their asses.”

 

Ryder swivels Jack around again, pointing to a cluster of individuals. Jack is introduced to Vang, their machine gunner who has an impressive side job of being a belligerent drunk,  Rosario, the sister squad machine gunner who has the impressive side job of always being stone cold sober.

 

Dodson, Alpha’s medic. Velez, Alpha’s RTO.

 

Camacho. Barron. Henson. Parrish. Bullock.

 

He learns all their names. Their faces.

 

He meets none of them.

 

Eventually Ryder gets the hint and corrals a severely sleep deprived Jack to their tent. They share it with forty-two other SEP personnel. It’s lit with last century fluorescent light tubes suspended from tent poles which turns everyone's skin a different sickening shade of chartreuse.

 

_ “It’s ‘cause Uncle Sam can’t afford any of that fancy hard light tech from Vishkar! India! Since when does India get a leg up on the greatest nation in the world?” _ Bemoans Ryder, his little patriotic heart, offended.

 

The floor of loose plywood sheeting is tethered to the ground by crates of rations, pulse ammunition, biotic emitters and weapons, which the soldiers sleep between in cramped and uneven rows. Two SEP soldiers circle each other in flip flops, sparring with nothing but their bare hands and little serrated blades attached to each of their knuckles. Another guy sits in a corner dealing cards to himself, doing push ups according to their face value. Ryder whispers over to Jack that the guy could get through the whole deck several times in one day. A few other miscellaneous soldiers lay reclined on their backs, studying different maps of California, smutty magazines, and schematics for known rogue omnic units.

 

Ryder barely has any time to warn Jack of his impending doom when a wall of a man marches right up to him and introduces himself as Captain Volkov of Charlie squad. He towers over Jack at almost 7’something. A tall sunburned albino with narrow features, he approaches with a tight grin and shakes Jacks hand, holding it captive.

 

“So. You’re the new guy, huh? Heard you were some sort of cushy air force officer before this, that right?”

Jack must look like a deer in the headlights.

 

_ “This division is real good at sniffing out discomfort, and right about now, you reek of it.” _

 

Fuckin’ Reyes was right. Jack mentally kicks himself in the head.

 

“You must’ve come all this way for the war, huh? You like war?” The pressure in his grip increases as his face inches even closer to Jack’s. Deep, unblinking blue eyes mirror his own. His smile begins to twitch. Jack can feel Ryder sweating nervously beside him.

 

“I hope you have fun in this war, medic.”

 

Suddenly he releases his hand. Jack not all too subtly takes it back like he’s been bitten by a cottonmouth and rubs the pain out. He gets a smack on the shoulder for his trouble. His stone-cold facade breaks.

 

“I’m just fucking with you, that’s all! No harm!” He walks off, laughing and shaking his head.

 

Several of the soldiers have stopped what they were doing to laugh at him as well. Jack glares at Ryder who just stares at the ground.

 

After getting acquainted with a few more fellow servicemen, things in the tent start to settle down. Several people start drifting off for a few hours of sleep while others turn over and quietly read. Jack finally feels the tension in his shoulders start to dissipate when Reyes walks in.

 

Jack learns quickly that Reyes, like all the other team leaders, are top dogs of the SEP division. He walks with a casual swagger, a magnetism and an air that’s palpable but not smothering with authority. Some of the people that were previously dozing or reading pick their heads up in reverence and acknowledgment of his existence. Some smile and offer him fist bumps, cigarettes, and handshakes. Reyes takes every single one of them.

 

After Jack’s minor shutdown in the Humvee, the last thing he wants to do is sit down and talk with the guy, but he figures he owes an explanation to his officer…...eventually. For some reason the thought of Reyes thinking  _ less  _ of Jack is more nauseating than it should be. Jack’s discomfort must peel off in more waves than he knows because Reyes stops and speaks from a distance. He thanks Ryder for showing him around and wishes the two of his men a goodnight before departing for his own corner of the tent.

 

As Jack and Ryder settle down in their cots Jack spots the luminescent glow coming from Reyes’ spot. Instead of turning in and sleeping, he sits engrossed in a SEP-issued tablet, studying what look to be invasion maps and satellite imagery.

 

Only after all the lights go out does Jack realize that Ryder placed them in the walkway of the tent that personnel use when they go to the latrines at night. Semi-naked servicemen in boots or flip flops traipse over their heads all night long. Jack and Ryder lay back to back, gritting their teeth and cursing under their breaths every time they hear someone wake up. 

 

Jack threatens Ryder with murder that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also apologies if this was kinda short but i really wanted to update /something/ since its been a while.
> 
> follow me on tumblr if you want!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh i'm so glad you guys like this so much!!! you're comments mean so much to me honestly and i hope to stay motivated to complete this piece in the future. considering ive never written romance or r76, this should be interesting!

Morning at Camp Herald begins at 0600. Jack awakens to a multitude of voices rising in volume. With a miserable groan he drags his body upwards and a scrubs a hand down the side of his face. Through bleary and not-quite-awake eyes, he sees Ryder pacing the center of the tent with a few other men. They all clutch letters and notes of some kind. They read the contents out loud. From the sounds of it, they’re letters written by schoolchildren, sent in from all over the country in an effort to boost the morale of the division. Ryder narrates his letter in a pitchy, squelching parrot voice that has Jack rubbing the temples of his head.

 

_ Dear Mr. Army Man-- _

 

A few of the servicemen already protest. Giving out bursts of ‘ _ fuck that _ ’ and ‘ _ jesus christ _ .’

 

_ I am proud that you are being brave and defending our country against the omnics, _

_ They are bad. And I am glad that you are going to catch them and punish them. _

 

Yohannan nods his head at Captain Volkov. “Hey, this kid ain’t a bad writer.” 

Volkov laughs.

 

_ Maybe you can come home without having to fight-- _

 

Vang, in his hungover delirium, rouses from his position draped over a table to protest, “ _ bullshit _ .”

 

_ Peace is always better than war and it would be nice if no one would be hurt-- _

 

Ryder slams the letter down and his voice hitches as he immediately forgoes his imitation, “what the fuck, where is this weak-ass child from?” Ryder takes the Hello Kitty sunglasses off his forehead and rubs the lenses on his uniform shirt, before placing them over his eyes and squinting.

 

Moron.

 

“Pfft! Fuckin’....!  _ Massachusetts _ . Fuckin…..!”

 

Jack inches closer to the cluster of personnel. He nods and greets a few of them quietly as to not distract from Ryder’s dissertation.

 

Ryder clears his throat. “Dear…….” He scans the letter again. “-- _ Joey _ . Thank you for your nice letter but  _ I  _ am actually a “seppie”; a member of a classified and  _ highly secretive  _ military program that handpicks and enhances the best, brightest, and only the most suicidal human begins into blood-crazed warriors that are born to kill.”

 

Several of the servicemen surrounding Ryder cheer. Yohannan pumps a greasy fist in the air. Jack rolls his eyes.

 

“-- _ Clearly  _ you have mistaken me and my fellow ‘ _ army-men’ _ as some sorta pack of peacekeeping, wine-sipping, mollycoddling mary’s. And although peace may appeal to tree-hugging snowflakes such as you and your parents-- we are death-dealing machines of patriotic vengeance designed with the sole intent on dismembering and dismantling the omnic threat to our very way of life.”

 

_ Jack sees it right before he feels the bump of the Humvee running over the body. He calls it too late-- because he doesn’t call it at all. An oblong pile of sharp shiny angles and torn up cloth. Wires and bolts for joints. Scant chrome plating that once made up functioning arms and legs and a torso even--once. A dusty metal dome attached to a strung out neck of cables and cords faces up towards the sky. Jack narrows his eyes. Underneath the veil of sand and dirt, he can make out the indentations and markings of a carbon fiber faceplate. Unlit dots for eyes. An unmoving line below them- a mouth. _

 

_ They cross over the bump. Reyes snaps at Ryder, questioning and chastising his driving. But Jack can only focus on the ripped up denim and cloth. He sees the detached hand of the omnic strung out  a few feet later. All metal and skeletal. But small in structure and size-- clutching a babydoll one might give to a human child. _

 

“--Peace sucks a fat one, Joey.”

 

Suddenly, Jack has a finger pointing at him, cutting across the rest of the group in grand arc. Ryder shoots him a devilish grin, and  _ winks _ .

 

“ _ War  _ is the motherfucking answer.”

 

Jack turns to walk away as Ryder finishes his speech by blowing Jack a kiss from across the room. A chorus of cheers consumes the room.

 

He does a heel turn right into someone else's chest. Jack is quick to jolt back, his face crumpling.

 

“Good morning to you too, Jack.”

 

Reyes. Shit.

 

He wears a form-fitting spandex suit. All black. The material clings to every angle of every muscle on his body. Up close, Jack can almost make out the beginnings of a tattoo running up his left bicep that seems to bloom right below his collarbone. What he can’t make out, is why his mouth has suddenly gone bone-dry.

 

“Good morning, sir.”

 

Reyes’ mouth shifts to a quick, flat line of disapproval at the formality. He adjusts quickly with a blink of his eyes.

 

“How are you holding up? I saw where you and Ryder decided to plant your cots last night…..I ah....can’t tell you how  _ sorry  _ I am that I trusted him to do right by you two.”

 

Jacks pained grimace must say it all because Gabe starts to laugh. Earnest and deep. It’s round and whole in sound that reverberates in the air around him. His mouth breaks into a wide grin too bright to ignore. His shoulders shake with the motion and Jack can feel the tips of his ears go red.

 

The group behind him is still laughing and egging Ryder on in his narration of the letters. Jack putters in place. This must remind Reyes of where he is and who he is because his laughter wanes before stopping, he sees Ryder pacing and strutting around, waving around the papers.

 

“But seriously. I truly apologize. I’m your officer and I should’ve insured that you had been given decent accommodations, and I’ll talk to Yohannan or Rosario about switching places with you. There’s only so long someone can spend sleeping with Ryder that one person can handle--I know.”

 

Jack nods and brings himself to meet Reyes’ eyes. He smiles and nods. “I would appreciate that.”

 

Reyes smacks his arm lightly. “Don’t mention it. In the meantime you can sleep with me--”

 

Jack raises an eyebrow.

 

“I mean, not _with_ me--my spot-- I mean next to me _in_ my spot that was previously totally mine--”

 

“--Unless you don’t want to--it. I won't be offended--you can take the whole spot even. No ‘next to me’ required. Of course if you don’t want the spot at all I can talk Vang out of his own. It’ll only cost me a few dozen beers is all.”

 

Reyes clears his throat painfully and straightens himself up. Reminding himself that he is in fact an officer and they are in fact; not alone. Jack is somewhat comforted by Reyes’ struggle to recover.

 

But ma raised him better than to be a sadist.

 

“Will that be all, sir?”

 

“Yes, yes there is. There is something else. Our briefing begins at 1400. Before that Monroe and I usually go for a run around camp and I was wondering--inquiring-- into whether you’d be busy or if you wanna tag along--”

 

“Thank you for the offer, but I actually have to restock our Humvee on med equipment and biotic emitters before we step off so...”

 

Jack notes how Reyes’ shoulders slump by a margin, how he scrubs the back of his neck. “Right--right, of course. I’ll see you at the briefing then?”

 

“It is mandatory, sir. So yes. I’ll-uh be there.”

 

“Right. Mandatory. Of course.” 

“I shouldn’t keep you any longer. As you were.”

 

“As I was, sir.” Jack waits, blinking at Reyes before prompting him, “....as  _ you  _ were, sir.”

 

Reyes nods. “As I was.”

 

Neither of them move an inch.

 

“Right.”

 

“Right.”

 

They both make a move to leave, and end up blocking each other off. They shoot each other apologetic smiles. Jack moves left and Reyes moves right. Reyes moves left and Jack moves right.

 

At that moment, Monroe pokes her head past the tent flap.

 

“Lieutenant Reyes?” She steps in clutching a standard pulse rifle, wearing a full MOPP suit, her gask mask secured around her neck and a ruck bag strapped to her back. She wears combat boots and several sets of weights strapped to her thighs.

 

_ For a run? _

 

Several of the men inside break apart from Ryder’s sermon, wolf-whistling and calling out to her. ‘Mommy!’s’ and ‘Monroe, I love you’s!’ erupt from the tent. She rolls her eyes and grins at them all.

  
  


“Lieutenant Reyes! L.T.! Front ‘n center, or I’m leaving without you!”

 

Reyes catches her eyes and all of the awkwardness and tension bleeds out from his face in an instant. With a final nod to Jack, he makes a running start and leaps over a few crates standing between him and Monroe. They depart and the cheering dies down again.

 

Jack feels a hand clamp down on his shoulder and rounds to face Dodson.

 

“ _ Damn _ , new guy. What’d you do to make your squad leader bolt like that?”

 

Jack wishes he knew.

\----------------------------

After revisiting medbay, Jack leaves for his squads Humvee loaded down with more than sufficient stock and the name of the head physician that first ‘welcomed’ him to Camp Herald. A retired Navy physician with acid burns and scars that cover a third of his face. He has more gold in his mouth than actual teeth and is missing two fingers. Dr. Daneeka. Jack quirks a brow at the name, and grins. Before Jack can make some sort of reference to the literary ‘Doc Daneeka’, the elderly gentleman jabs a finger at the door and threatens murder. But the shit eating grin on his face betrays his verbal intentions.

 

Before Jack can make it to the squad vehicle his eyes catch two figures darting across the expanse of the camp. One figure is all stock and smooth curvatures, the other is more angular; boxy and awkward shapes bulge out around their form at unnatural intervals. It’s Reyes and Monroe. Despite the fact that the female officer is wearing upwards of  a hundred pounds additional gear, she seems to be gaining on a more streamlined Reyes. For every inch Monroe gains on Reyes’ heels, he finds the energy to rush forward another two. Even from such a distance Jack finds his gaze lingering perhaps a bit too long on his officer. The spandex leaves little to the imagination, especially to what lies below the waist.

 

Jack feels the jab to his stomach before he registers a voice.

 

“Hey, Morrison. Catch any flies yet?”

 

Jack jolts open-mouthed to face Ryder. His grip on the bandages and biotic emitters slips and the little blue cylinders of cloth and  liquid sunshine clatter to the dusty earth. Ryder kneels beside Jack to help him pick up the cannisters and leans even lower to ground to get a better look at his red-faced comrade.

 

“You know. It’s not gay if you think Reyes is hot.” Jack fights down a sneer at the purr in Ryder’s voice. He bites down on his bottom lip, hard.

 

“ _ We  _ all think he’s hot.”

 

It disturbs him how matter-of-factly Ryder speaks about it.

 

They both look up to see Monroe finally catch up to Reyes stride for stride. As she begins to surpass him, her air-parched throat lets out a triumphantly dry screech of victory, her fists pumped high in the air. They round the corner and the stampede of two race by Ryder and Jack in a flash. The earth they kick up as they pass sends Jack and Ryder flinging themselves out of harm's way, now covered in powdery red sand.

 

Ryder is still spitting dust out of his mouth. He speaks in between coughs and sneezes, watching Reyes’ retreating form speed off into the desert behind Monroe.

 

“God--you’re--beautiful.”

 

Jack coughs in agreement.

\--------------------------------

 

Right after hitting the showers following his doomed run-turned-race with Monroe, he gets the call from Morrison that there’s been an incident in their tent.

 

Involving  _ their  _ comms officer.

 

Gabe enters the tent in an agitated flourish, but no one seems to pay him any mind. They all sit and stand hovering around a burnt up ring of scorched earth in the middle of the room. Gabe kicks a piece of charred metal to the side as he gets closer.

 

Ryder is a groaning mess, curled in on himself. He clutches the left half of his face; his hand clasps over the reddish-pink skin Gabe can see peeking out between their fingers. Some of the men turn to see Gabe and scatter from his path like unearthed roaches.

 

Jack is grumbling something under his breath as he tears open a cylinder of liquified biotic field. He dabs some of the fluids onto some spare bandaging and then layers the dampened cloth with burn gel. Ryders eyes bulge and he swats at Jacks head with his free arm.

 

“Dude---dude no that shit’s gonna-sting. Get that shit away from me--”

 

Jack tries to tilt Ryders head back, exposing his neck and burned face to the ceiling. Ryder pushes back against the medic again.

 

“Leave me alone, Jack--I got this. Let me do it my way.”

 

“Quit screwing around, I need to do this. I need to make sure an infection doesn’t set in.”

 

“You ain’t gotta do  _ shit _ \--fuck off let me handle my own shit--”

 

“--Come the fuck over here and get stabilized.” After scrabbling with Ryder for a bit, Jack gives up and resorts to grabbing Ryder by the back of his head and forcing his cheek to meet the bandaging. Ryder lets out a screech as his molten skin fizzles and crackles as it makes contact.

 

“Fucking fuck! Son of a tied down-- _fuck_ _you Morrison_!”

 

“--biotic fields already been activated, I’m not letting you waste it--”

 

“I’ll show  _ you  _ a fucking  _ waste _ \--”

 

And with no more warning, Ryder swings low and nails Morrison in the gut. Jack doesn’t see it coming and falls off the crate he was seated on, he lands on his back. Pieces of Ryder’s skin are still slinking off his face as he scrambles on top of Jack, looking to land more punches on the medic.

 

Ryder barely has time to raise his fist before he’s seized by the back of his shirt and thrown backwards halfway across the tent. Ryder growls and pushes himself up to his feet, glaring daggers at his new assailant before he can register just who it is. And once he does, his face falls instantly.

 

“What the hell's going on here?” Gabe's voice is verbal venom. He stands resolute and cold as the grave. He feels himself go on autopilot. Shoulders squared. Spine straight. A dagger-like scowl to match his deathly sharp glare.

 

No one speaks. No one moves.

 

No one  breathes.

 

His eyes scan Ryder for excuses. He finds none.

He scans for weakness, and in that moment, he sees nothing  _ but  _ weakness in Ryder’s put-off form.

 

Ryder’s breathlessly motions to his face, to Jack, to the rice cooker of the floor--

 

_ Rice cooker? _

 

_ The fuck? _

 

A weak coughing to Gabe’s right snaps him from his train of thought. He rushes over to Jacks side just as he manages to force himself upright. Gabe extends a hand to Jack. The other man takes it without a second for thought. And without making eye contact.

 

Gabe hauls Jack to his feet with ease. Jacks hand is calloused. His palm is slick and covered in burn gel and biotic solution. The contact sends tingles up Gabes arm and causes a warmth to bloom in his chest. Gabe chalks it up to the effects of the biotic emitter and turns to face Ryder again before Jack can see his face.

 

“Well?”

 

Ryder putters and gazes guiltily at Jack from over Gabe’s shoulder. His sagging skin begins to puff out and turns a few shades darker.

 

“I…....” Ryder pathetically offers.

 

But Gabe isn’t done. He glowers at the rest of the tent. His gaze; accusatory and yet already resigned, pins everyone in their place.

 

“ _ Well?” _

 

Yohannan, the designated FNG and tattle-tale, pipes up first.

 

“Ryder was trynna make pancakes with Vang’s rice cooker.” He mumbles, as if that explains it all.

 

Gabe raises an eyebrow.

 

“Y’know….like you see online? The really big and puffy ones are made with rice cookers--and  _ killjoy _ over here” Yohannan half-heartedly motions to a weak-kneed Morrison,  “said that the rice cooker was out of regulations ‘n threatened to snitch if we didn't--”

 

Gabe levels a harsh look at Yohannan.

 

“ _ They _ started it.”

 

This incites a riot as Vang, Ryder, and several others start to jump in. Armed with their own excuses and explanations. They trip over each other verbally and physically to spare themselves of  _ Lieutenant Reyes’  _ ire. Their competing cases grate against Gabe’s ears and patience.

 

“It’s not--their fault.” Jack finally manages to puff out.

 

“I got in the way. I tried to shut the damn thing off without knowing how it worked. Ryder, he w--”

 

Ryder swallows in fear, shaking his head minutely at Jack. Some sort of silent begging apparent on his features.

 

Jack swallows down whatever he was about to say as he trips over his phrasing, “he wasn’t responsible. He tried to take over but it was already late. I’d already fucked it up. The cooker….malfunctioned. He shoved me out of the way and attempted to shut down the cooker. Ryder took the brunt of the-- _ fallout _ .”

 

Gabe tilts his head to Jack, then to Ryder, then back to Jack.

 

“Is this true?  _ You  _ caused Ryder’s burns?”

 

Vang raises his eyebrows and stares deeply into a bottle of whiskey that has materialized from his jacket out of nowhere. He takes a deep swig without looking at anyone. Yohannan’s eyes flit nervously from Gabe to his other squadmates. Rosario rolls his eyes and sighs throw his nose.

 

“Yes. Yes, sir.”

 

“ _ Really _ ?”

 

Jack locks eyes with Gabe. Cornflower blue boring into infallible russets.

 

“I caused this incident. Ryder suffered a casualty on my account. I take the blame.”

 

Ryder’s mouth opens just the slightest bit. His icy gray eyes are wide as saucers.

 

“I’m just trying to do my job and correct the problem however I can.” 

 

Jack turns and points a crumpled look at Ryder. “And I pushed too hard trying to treat him. I should have known better than to treat the unwilling.”

 

Gabe nods to himself. Frustration colored by disappointment churns in the pit of Gabe’s stomach.

 

“Understood….”

 

Gabe nods to the rest of the tent. 

 

“Anyone not directly involved in the incident, keep this quiet for now. If your superiors hear that any of you were harboring and operating with equipment disallowed from the barracks, you  _ all  _ face being written up and NJP’d.”

“I’ll handle this myself. Morrison, finish treating Ryder--if he’ll allow it, and then get me something in writing by the end of the day on what exactly happened. I expect the same from you too, Ryder.”

 

A sullen silence paralyzes the tent.

 

“Morrison.”

 

“......sir?”

 

Gabe turns and begins to exit the tent.

 

“Meet me outside when you’re done. We’ve still got a briefing to get through.”

 

Gabe shakes his head to himself. He’s pissed that Ryder’s hurt. And pissed even more so that their  _ medic--Jack _ \-- of all people caused that hurt. They’re all his squadmates. His responsibility. Any injury they incur while under his leadership feels like a blow to the head. And  _ this? _ Gabe knows full well that something as fucking stupid as a rice cooker could get them all in trouble. They’re all SEP property. Any self-imposed injuries or woundings against each other is considered damage to government property.

 

He needs to leave. He needs to leave now. Before he jumps down Morrisons throat for jeopardizing them. Before he murders the rest of them for creating the situation.

 

“Morrison. You’re alright, right?”

 

“......feeling spry,” Jack replies with a dry grimace, hoping to assuage the current mood.

 

Gabe nods. “As you were.”

 

He leaves without another word.

 

He doesn’t hear Jack murmur,

 

“as I was.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo this was gonna be alot longer of a chapter but i really wanted to update so yea here take angsty gabe and asshole OC's

Gabe tries to ignore the weight of Jack’s guilty gaze on his back as he pushes open the officers tent flaps. He stands aside, allowing Jack to scuttle in, his head bowed and his eyes darting everywhere but at Gabe.

 

“Ah. Lieutenant. Sergeant. About time you decided to join us.” Captain Volkov says with a simper. 

 

Jack startles, pointing a sharp look at Volkov while frowning deeply. His eye contact is still everywhere. 

 

“Good morn-- _ afternoon _ , sir.”

 

Gabe internally groans.

 

Anxiety and guilt over the  _ rice cooker situation _ still peels off of Jack in waves. He couldn’t look more bothered if he tried.

 

Gabe blinks hard and chews the inside of his cheek before schooling his voice into something more cavalier, carefree. The last thing he wants is for Volkov to ask is if anything is wrong.

 

“Yea well. We can’t all be brown-nosing tryhards showing up an  _ hour  _ before a briefing. I’m on time.”

 

Monroe sits nearby preparing a pen and paper for notes. She stifles a snort of a laugh into the crook of her arm and shakes her head. Dodson sits by his commander close by, rolling his eyes.

 

“Hey. Early’s on time. And on time is  _ late _ . It’d do you good to remember that.”

 

Gabe raises an eyebrow, a slow grin stretching across his features.

 

Volkov creeps closer and pats Gabe’s arm good naturedly. He leans in close to Gabe’s ear. His smile is all teeth. Gabe wants to recoil, as Volkovs breath is moist and warm in his ear. Volkov locks eyes with Jack from over Gabe’s shoulder. “I know you’re still kinda new to this whole ‘officer’ thing,  _ kid _ , but still. At least  _ pretend  _ to know what’s expected of you.”

 

The grin falls from Gabe’s face. His eyes dart to the side, but he can only make out the narrow and rat-like features of Volkov’s side profile.

 

“You’re responsible for a lot more than just a single team now,  _ lieutenant _ . You gotta do a lot better than simply ‘be on time.’”

 

Gabe laughs out through his nose, the look he shoots Volkov is incredulous. This guy can’t be serious.

 

“Alright, Volkov, I get it, you got me worried now. You can break character now.”

 

“I’m being dead-fucking-serious, Reyes.”

 

Gabe feels himself go on autopilot again. Spine straight. Squared shoulders.

 

“There…..there was an incident I had to attend to, Captain. I didn’t intend--”

 

He’s backpedaling. He knows it. He’s backpedaling, and right now?

 

He doesn’t care.

 

“I don’t give a single shit about what you intended, Reyes. And neither do the rest of the officers. First your showing up with squad mates that look ready to shit themselves they’re so unconfident,” Volkov says, narrowing his eyes further at Jack, “-- _ then  _ you’re showing up to meetings almost late, and who knows what's next?”

 

Gabe swallows in understanding.

 

“You’re not a sergeant anymore. You’re not one of them anymore. So start acting like it. You can’t be there to handle every single little problem the men have. You’re an officer, and an officer delegates. They don’t play nursemaid every time something goes wrong. They demand answers and solutions to problems that the other men are too ill-equipped to figure out.” Volkov must have taken his sights off of Jack, because he hears his squadmate let out a puff. Volkov leans away from Gabe to look him in the eye. Scanning him for a challenge, a rebuttal, an excuse.

 

Gabe gives him no such thing.

 

“I understand, Captain. It won’t--happen again--”

  
  


Monroe reclines in her seat, glaring daggers at Volkov’s form. However she must see something past him. A figure entering the tent. Suddenly she's on her feet, legs locked together and arms pinned at her sides.

 

“ROOM,  _ ATTEN--TION _ .”

 

Everyone in the room is on their feet, their forms go rigid and straight, their gazes settle on the middle distance, staring straight ahead. Gabe slowly clenches and unclenches his fists while still keeping them balled.

 

When did his hands get this sweaty?

 

“As you were,as you were the lot of you--at ease….” The speaker sounds like they swallowed a handful of shattered marbles. Their voice is a gravelly wisp of a thing, creaking and growling to an extent. It’s owner is a short, stockier gentleman with a dark complexion. His close shaven hair has almost completely grayed and his pronounced freckles and age lines frame a deep-set pair of shiny dark eyes.

 

He walks with an entourage of even older and more grim looking men and women behind him who are quick to takes seats flanking a map suspended on a weather-worn easel. Some scrunch their noses at having to sit on crates and others whisper complaints to each other over the accommodations or the weather, or both.

 

All officers then. Lovely.

 

At the command, everyone’s forms go slack. Monroe, Dodson and the others retake their seats. Volkov gives Gabe a last once over before he stalks off to join his own medic, Lee, who is quick to avert his eyes once Gabe notices him.

 

Dodson is quick to tap Jack on the shoulder, resting a hand on his shoulder. 

“Hey, man. Saved you a seat, c’mon,” he whispers. Jack shoots Gabe a look and is quick to take the offer. Gabe resigns himself to standing behind Monroe. He wants as little contact as possible with Jack or any other officer right now.   Not with Volkov’s condemnations ringing in his head like death knells.

 

The older gentleman, the leader of the entourage makes his way over to the map, removing a pen from a pocket.

 

“Good afternoon, everyone.”

 

In unison, the room answers him back.

 

“Good afternoon, sir.”

 

“How are you doing today?”

 

“ _ Outstanding,  _ sir!” Is the unanimous reply. Some, like Dodson, say it wholeheartedly. Others, like Gabe, Jack, and Volkov, grit out the standard reply like a curse.

 

The gentleman nods him himself and clears his unclearable throat.

 

“Very good. Outstanding….onto business then?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

 

“For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Major Abraham Sawyer, commanding officer of SEP’s first division. I am in charge of all SEP operations to be carried out for the western seaboard of these United States. I have been directed to spearhead what will be the largest scale reoccupation effort of SEP’s entire career. SEP is here for one goal, and one goal only.”

 

Gabe mouths out the word just as Major Sawyer says it,

 

“Los Angeles.”

 

Gabe crosses his arms on reflex, but he makes it look more casual by hooking one ankle over the other. It still bothers him to think that Los Angeles is still being overrun by Eradicators, OR-14’s, Bastions, and who  _ knows  _ what else? 

 

All news coming out of L.A. stopped five months ago.

 

The last contact he’d had with anyone from the area was from his mother. She’d reassured him that the family--Ariel, and Uriela, and Rafaela--and--- the  _ whole  _ family had made it out safe, that they were awaiting transportation up north at a checkpoint somewhere on the Nevada border. She’d claimed they were unscathed, as were the neighbors, and the neighbors neighbors. But Gabe knew better. He knew what the tremors in her voice over the payphone meant. He could see her watery smile. Feel her trembling fingers in his own even though he was stationed a couple hundred miles away at the time.

 

He wishes mamma had been telling him the truth. But he knew better. He knew how the omnics operated. They wouldn’t stop at toppling buildings or cutting off resources. They wouldn’t stop at demolishing infrastructure or human life.

 

The omnics sought to destroy anything and everything resembling an organic existence.

 

He knows that the public school he attended for most of his student life is gone. He knows the park he used to take his sisters to is gone as well. The courthouse where his mother worked; the one she’d always dragged him to on the weekends so she could watch him while she worked is probably gone too. The observatories, the theatres, the stadiums and markets.

 

His home, too. Is probably gone as well. His, his neighbors. And yes--mamma-- even the neighbors  _ neighbors  _ house as well.

 

_ The place that cradled me is burning _

 

“Are there any questions thus far? Anything concerning the objective?” Sawyer scans the room for raised hands.

 

Gabe feels a cold weight settle in his gut. Nervously he glances down and sees Jack diligently scribbling notes down on some borrowed papers from Dodson. The two medics compare their annotations and scribblings on the sides of copied maps. Monroe’s paper is more barren, she absently jots down only things she knows will be of worth. He almost sighs in relief.

 

Lee raises a hand. Sawyer gazes expectantly at Volkov’s medic.

 

“Yes, sir I---the invasion for L.A. seems all well and good, but what are the details concerning the securing of the La Loma bridge? And Pasadena? Aren’t  _ those  _ the current objectives at hand?”

 

God bless you, Lee.

 

Sawyer straightens himself out and attempts to clear his throat again.

 

“Yes well. I was just getting to that but yes--just remember that it is important to have your long term goals in mind as well whenever you make a short term decision. Now then onto the assault--”

 

The rest of the briefing goes off well enough. Monroe and Reyes’ team is to continue as planned sometime in the near future to assault and reclaim the La Loma bridge and Pasadena. Make it a launching pad for the brewing invasion of L.A. They are to eliminate any rogue omnic elements as they go and secure the areas they pass through. Volkov’s squad and sister squad is to remain at camp and await further orders.

 

It’s still blistering hot and bright outside by the time the briefing is concluded. As soon as Sawyer gives the word, Volkov stalks out of the tent in an angry flourish, dragging a reluctant Lee with him.  Sawyer and his entourage are next. Oddly enough, Delta’s medic, Sherry remains, sans squad leader. In fact, Gabe doesn’t recall seeing the leader even enter. He’s quick to round on her, anything to keep him from having to talk to Jack or Monroe for just a little longer.

 

“I...you didn’t hear, sir?” She says with a disheartened squeak. “We--our team was ambushed while we were en route back to camp. Lieutenant I’m sorry to say but-- Parata was injured-- his wounds got infected--nothing we could do by the time we made it here. His...his replacement will be here soon. That’s why Volkov is stuck with us. Until we have a proper leader, Charlie’s squad leader is our own.”

 

Parata’s death should sting more than it does. He met Parata on his first duty assignment, a fresh-faced graduate of SEP’s Gauntlet. Parata was a good man. The son of Maori immigrants who fled Australia at the first sign of trouble in the outback. He was a good man. And now he’s dead. But Gabe only has enough energy for pity and resignation as of now.

 

He blames the lack of sleep and not something else.

He shoots the young woman a flat smile. He goes to leave but her voice stops him.

 

“Sir--since your here, I was actually going to talk to you anyway--since we’re on the subject….” She pauses, her eyes dart around the tent for any perceived threat. Her voice becomes a hushed, muted thing.

 

“The rest of Delta is worried about Volkov, his leadership I mean. And there are rumors about Parata’s replacement…..some of us are worried and--”

 

“And Monroe said we could trust you. If we have any concerns, we’ll be reporting to you, and you first, sir. If that’s alright.”

 

Just like Yohannan. Sherry hasn’t been through the Gauntlet either. But at least she doesn’t pretend to have done so. But SEP is starving for medics, so here she is. Almost as lost looking and off-put as Jack is.

 

“Of course. Let me know if you need anything, without fail. You can tell your squadmates I said so too. If there’s anything at all--I’m at your squads disposal.”

 

The tension melts off of her face. And with a tight smile and nod, she leaves.

 

Gabe turns to face the final judgement. Dodson, Monroe and Jack all stare.

 

“What?”

 

Dodson shoots out of his seat, knowing his place. “Uh, bye Morrison! Ma’am. Sir.”

 

When Dodson leaves, Gabe prompts again.

 

“.....What?’’

 

Monroe stands with a sigh. Jack looks down and shuffles through his notes.

 

“Reyes…what was that?”

 

“What? You’ve never seen Volkov be an asshole before? He does it more often than not--figured you’d be used to it by now--”

 

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about but yea now that you bring it up, what did he want?”

 

“It’s not important.”

 

“Reyes--”

“Drop it, Chloe. It was a confidential talk between two officers. He voiced some concerns about my leadership abilities and I listened like a good leader should. That’s all.”

 

Monroe shakes her head. “You know what? I just sat through one of the driest briefings in my life and I’m running on four hours sleep so-- fine. I’ll take it. But we’re not done talking you and I, we’ll catch up later, after we’ve had some food and rest.”

 

“Is that a threat?”, Gabe purrs, hand on his hip. Jack clears his throat, sticking his head in the metaphorical sand, and the non-metaphorical papers in his grip.

 

Monroe saunters up and grabs Gabe’s chin in her thumb and pointer finger. She smiles, all teeth and tenacity, but it’s nothing like Volkov.

 

“Oh  _ sweetheart _ . I don’t make threats. I make  _ promises _ .”

 

And then there were two.

 

Jack stands and hands Gabe a copy of the notes and a map of the local area.

 

“What about you?”

 

“...What about me?”

 

“What did you think of that whole…. _ display _ ?”

 

Jack sucks in a breath and straightens his posture.

 

“I--permission to speak freely?”

 

“ _ Please.”  _ Gabe says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

“Volkov is a Grade-A asshole.” Jack says, his mouth is a flat line.

 

“Give me a break...he’s nothing I can’t handle--”

 

“ I’d suggest you watch your backside around him. If it’s all the same to you.”

 

Exhaustion wears on Gabe like a heavy winter coat in the summer. He scrubs the side of his clean-shaven face harshly, not thinking about his words.

 

“D’awww. You worried about me, medic? Pretty sure that’s not in the job description.”

 

Jack runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Yea well, neither is burning off a squadmates face with a rice cooker but hey--my ma always said I was an overachiever.”

 

Gabe laughs low and long, longer than he should at that.

 

“Don’t even get me started again on that mess……” Gabe buries his head in his hands, scrubbing even more harshly at his closed eyes.

 

“You’re right--you’re right shit sorry.”

 

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

 

“I can think of no one more deserving of an apology right now.”

 

He’s still smiling. Gabe blinks slow at Jack and nods.

 

“I  _ am  _ sorry. I never meant for Ryder to get hurt. And--I’ll have the report forwarded to you by the end of the day--”

 

“Stop. We don’t need to talk about that right now. We can just--get some food maybe? Before Monroe comes to steal me away?” Gabe sticks a hand out to Jack.

 

Jack reaches out and takes it. They shake on it. Again, Gabe stamps down the warmth in his chest. There’s no biotic fluid to blame it on. So this time he chalks it up the sleep and food deprivation. That and over-exposure to Volkov.

 

Jack holds the tent flap open for Gabe and stands aside. “After you.”

 

They exit together, shoulder to shoulder, in the distance they spot Ryder and a few of the others waving excitedly to them.

 

“You know. What you said to Sherry. That was….really nice of you, I mean. Delta isn’t your responsibility but you offered to look over ‘em all the same.”

 

“Yooooo! Guys! They bought us  _ pizza _ ! SEP got us Pizza-Hut! In the middle of the desert!” Ryder’s speech is garbled by the thick layers of gauze wrapped around half his face, yet he remains undeterred, waving his arms and shaking Yohannan around like a rag doll.

 

Gabe shakes his head, dismissing the compliment.“That-that was nothing. That was me doing my job.”

 

“Sherry’s squad isn’t your responsibility.”

 

“They’re  _ SEP,  _ they’re good people.They’re here fighting the good fight against the omnics just like us. They certainly  _ are  _ my responsibility. At least, now they are.”

 

The rest of the journey to secure food is carried out in comfortable silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments give me life, thank you all for your continued reading!the next chapter will def get things going a bit more!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if this came late, but i really wanted to take my time with it.
> 
> your comments continue to give me life so thank you for all the lovely messages you leave me!
> 
> tw for slightly, unknowing transphobia and subtle parental gaslighting

“Un-fucking-believable.”

“Oh this shit is  _ on _ .” 

 

Ryder and Yohannan say in unison. Jack and Gabe scan the crowded mess hall-tent-thing in equal amounts of wonder. Black and brown uniformed bodies tote stacks of steaming pizza boxes to and fro. Personnel bob and weave and attack the boxes in a rapt frenzy, some people shoving entire slices down their throats while others cheer them on; every other table of soldiers tries to outdo each other.Others savor their food; eating it bit by bit, their features are shadowed and concerned, as if the  surprise pizza delivery is a herald of other things to come.

Major Sawyer and his entourage of officers have their own table shoved into a corner, they study maps and speak in hushed whispers, content with eating what looks to be freeze-dried pasta. 

 

“Y’know just when I start to hate SEP, they go and pull some kinda bullshit like this.” Ryder said.

 

“I love SEP...do you love SEP? Cause I sure as shit do now.” Ryder grabs Yohannan by the elbow and drags him along. “C’mon man they’re charging $20 a slice and I need you to spot me.”

 

“--Wait, what? Nah, guy--!”

 

“Later Gabe! Morrison!” Ryder shouts over his shoulder with a wave.

 

Jack shakes his head and looks over at Gabe, who seems to be watching the commotion with rapt interest. He watches as the frown spreads on his broad face. Jack nudges Gabe’s arm with his own and tilts his head towards an unoccupied table off to the side. 

 

They sit and eat in silence. Gabe’s face is a subdued storm. His russet eyes scan Jack’s notes as he absently pulls out his tablet and comms.

 

“Hey. I thought we were here to eat, not work,  _ sir.”  _ Jack says around his third slice of pepperoni pizza. Gabe points a glare up at Jack for a moment before returning to his maps, making harsh pen strokes in black ink along the margins of the parchment.

 

“Can’t. Gotta catch up on the briefing notes. I blanked the whole time.”

 

Jack rolled his eyes. “I’m sure no one noticed--”

 

“Doesn’t  _ matter _ …...doesn’t. Just--”

 

Jack sighs. “I’m only saying it out of concern. Seriously. I thought you said you were gonna take it easy--”

 

“I  _ am  _ taking it easy!”

 

“Really? Coulda had me fooled--”

 

Strong hands brace Gabe’s shoulders from behind. Monroe beaming face smiles down at the two seated men. A set of soft and manicured hands come up and pinch at Gabe’s clean-shaven cheeks. She smooshes them together comically and places a chaste kiss on his head before gracelessly plunking down into the seat next to Gabe; whose eyes have narrowed so far Jack is surprised they haven’t fully closed yet.

 

She props her hand under a chin and bats her eyes at Gabe. “Hey hotstuff.”

 

Gabe returns to his notes and rubs at his assaulted cheeks with a free hand. “Hey mayfly.”

 

“Told you I’d catch up with you.”

 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me. I let you find me, babygirl.”

 

Monroe scoffs and rolls her eyes. She lets a few seconds pass before she takes the notes and maps right from underneath Gabe. He stares at her and she stares right back. A challenge twinkles in her eyes.

 

A pang of something cold washes over the back of Jack’s neck. He feels his face go warm. Suddenly the four slices of pizza in his stomach churn and twist. He looks away. He shouldn’t be seeing this.

 

“What are you looking at?”

 

“A dead man walking. Evidently. Focus on your work later, your medic and I gave you all the notes you need.”

 

“Give me a break.”

 

“I’m  _ trying  _ to.”

 

Where Jack failed, Monroe succeeds as Gabe sighs and puts his tablet away. Jack wordlessly slides a slice over to his lieutenant and Gabe takes it with a grateful nod.

 

“I still don’t want to talk. It’s not ‘later’ enough.”

 

“I figured….” Monroe says with a faux pout on her full lips. She runs a hand over her midnight cloud of hair which remains confined to a braided bun. The backs of her fingers to her other hand gently rub against the side of Gabe’s neck. “Just wanted to let you know mail call is going around, in case you're expecting any word from your mom. Or sisters.”

 

Gabe hums. Monroe turns to Jack, finally acknowledging him. “Same goes to you, flyboy. This is the last correspondence you’ll get from home in a while. Last chance to send anything else out before we step off.”

 

Jack blinks in surprise. “ _ Oh,  _ um-thank you, ma’am. I wasn’t aware we’d have the chance to…”

 

Monroe nods readily. “Keep an eye out for the mailbag. I gave it to Vang. He’s on your squad so he should be skulking around somewhere.”

 

She taps her lips. Her face scrunches. “Now...there was something else I meant to tell you two but for the  _ life  _ of me I can’t seem to remember.”

 

Gabe huffs as he begins biting into a second slice, also courtesy of Jack.

 

Monroe lets out a heavy sigh before throwing herself back out of her chair. “Oh well. It’ll come to me later, I’m sure. Sorry for interrupting your date by the way, babycakes. I’ll let you two get back to whatever kinda broody foreplay y’all were up to.”

 

Jack clears his throat into the crook of his arm, wishing he could crawl into his uniform sleeve and disappear. Gabe sputters around his bread crust.

 

She whispers something into Gabe’s ear that makes him shake his head before she’s on her way.

 

“Later blondie, later sweetpea.”

 

As soon as she’s out of earshot Gabe shoves away what remains of his food and begins to open his mouth to complain when another dark figure approaches their table.

 

Jack’s eyes go saucerwide. He gives Gabe no other warning.

 

“Look Jack, sorry you had to hear her  _ bullshit _ \--”

 

Jack shoots up out at his seat, snapping to attention, staring straight ahead.

 

“Good afternoon, Major Sawyer!”

 

Jack hears Gabe snarl out a muffled ‘fuck’ under his breath as he jumps up to join Jack at his standstill.

 

It’s not long before the elderly gentlemen placates the two men. “As you were, take your seats...I didn’t mean to disturb you….”

 

Jack twitches, his eyes apologize to Gabe as he’s faced with a glare from his lieutenant. They take their seats and stare up at Sawyer, expectantly.

 

In the lights of the dining tent and away from his entourage, Sawyer seems softer, all rounded edges and big cheeks. He stands a bit hunched over and his uniform with its extra padding makes him seem larger at the shoulders and upper back. He stands with hands clasped behind his back, smiling mildly at the officer and medic under his charge.

 

Jack thinks he looks a bit like a tortoise. His dress uniform of green and brown with the extra padding at his shoulders and back is like a shell. His wrinkled old neck sags like that of a turtles.

 

“Lieutenant Reyes. Sergeant Morrison. Good to see you two out and relaxing. Especially  _ you _ , L.T.”

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“The other members of top staff and I have seen how hard you’ve all been working towards the impending invasion and we all figured this would be a nice way of boosting morale.”

 

“Yes sir.” Reyes’ smile is a little forced and over-polite, it’s a borderline grimace.

 

“What do you think, lieutenant. In your opinion as an officer? Would you say this was good for the soldiers?”

 

“Of course, sir.”

 

Sawyer tilts his head marginally. He’s expecting Reyes to say something more. Reyes stares up unblinking at his commander, his grimace begins to fray at the edges.

 

Jack jumps to the rescue.

 

“--Top staff’s leadership always has our best interests in mind.”

 

Sawyer rocks his body to face the medic. Sagging eyes light up with sudden interest.

 

“It’s definitely a welcome change of pace.  It was a kind gesture, for you to buy the division all this food, afford us this luxury of a break. It won’t be wasted.”  Jack says with a wide smile. His tone is diplomatic and earnest.

 

Sawyer hums in contentment.

 

“And I must say sir, having just been assigned to this division, I already feel like part of the team. Such shows of good faith as this will only nurture devotion to your leadership and inspire further motivation for the mission to come, I assure you.”

 

Reyes’ mouth parts slightly. Deep russets bounce from Sawyer to Jack. Sawyer takes Jack’s hand in his own in a firm grip.

 

“Young man, that is such a relief to hear. I thank and applaud you for your honesty.”

 

“Your leadership deserves no less, Major.”

 

“Well I thank you all the same.”

 

Jack is on autopilot. The motions, the polite words and mannerisms are second nature. Even if he hadn’t previously been an officer in his own right.

 

His lifelong training as a midwestern gentleman kicks in. He’s reminded of sunday mornings at church with ma, how she’d show off her  _ handsome  _ eldest son to those who’d crowd around the Morrison clan in the pews; he would escort them down the church aisles on the crook of his scrawny elbows and compliment their hats or dresses. The old ladies would coo and pinch his cheeks. He would flatter them and they would give him salted caramels and taffy to hide in his pockets. Ma taught him how to take all that attention in stride, to smile and make kind conversation and how to look like you’re listening in earnest to someone. Pa taught him too; when he’d drag Jack and Phil to the hardware store down the road and chat up the shop owner, Big Earl. Pa taught him to shake hands ‘like a man’. How to look a man in the eye and tell if he’s lying or not. He learned to haggle and compromise and schmooze; anything to get a few dollars taken off the price of the new pipe wrench Pa needed. 

 

This?

 

This is nothing.

 

Sawyer rocks on his feet to and fro. Jack thinks if he rocks back far enough he’ll fall over. Jack braces himself to act. A turtle fallen back on its shell will die if it can’t right itself back up.

 

“Lieutenant, you have a fine medic here….I must confess I approached you two with quite some concern for your conducts. I am glad to see my fears were unfounded.” Sawyer swivels on his heels, beaming at them both. Over Sawyer’s shoulder--there in the distance, they spot Vang with Ryder in tow. One carries an oversized mail bag, and the other holds what looks to be the latest swimsuit calendar. Ryder grins and runs ahead of Vang, closing in on them.

 

“.......Sir?” Jack and Gabe say in unison.

 

Ryder stops just short of Sawyer when they hear it:

 

“After I received that casualty report from Corporal Ryder--about the ehm--injuries incurred from a….rice cooker was it?”

 

Ryder’s eyes widen. He turns ten shades paler and slowly takes a step back, then another. Jack stands so close to Gabe he can hear him swallow down his anxieties.

 

Sawyer puffs out a breath, “I’m  _ sure  _ you can understand my concern.”

 

Ryder books it and bolts the other way, running right into Vang. They collide, and the open mailbag flies open. Letters and missives scatter on the dusty earth. The tent erupts into disappointed protest.

 

Yohannan can be heard in the distance, “Fucks sake, Ryder!”

 

Sawyer slowly rocks his body to face the commotion for a moment. Gabe and Jack shoot each other nervous glances and mouth out indiscernible words to each other. Jack sees worry begin to edge the corner of Gabe’s eyes. 

 

Sawyer sways back and Jack and Gabe face forward again, their features give nothing away.

 

“What say you, Reyes?”

 

“My men were operating the faulty rice cooker within SEP regulations. They had no knowledge of any defections within the device.”

 

“And you personally observed these malfunctions..?”

 

Gabe sucks in a breath, he only hesitates a little. “Of course, sir. I witnessed the swiftness and efficiency that the other personnel acted with in order to diffuse the situation and aid their fellow seppie.”

 

The corners of Jack’s mouth turn up the slightest bit. He feels a tinge of something warm in his chest.  He’s proud, in a way. Gabe’s recovery is his own.

 

Sawyer nods to himself. “Then it seems you should be writing your personnel up for some commendations. I would be more than happy to help you honor these fine soldiers.”

 

“I’ll…..keep that in mind.” Gabe says, looking over and smiling that pained smile at Jack.

 

“As you should…....gentlemen.”

 

‘Sir.” They both say to Sawyer’s retreating form.

\----------------------

A week later, Gabe and Jack lie across from one another in their tent, pouring over the mail they received from Vang. He’d finally had enough time and sobriety to dust off all the envelopes he’d dropped the week prior well enough to make out who they were originally addressed to not long after their run in with Sawyer. Gabe is on his back, flipping disinterestedly through a couple of bills and junk mail. Jack lies on his stomach staring holes into a creamy envelope with a cardinal postage stamp on the front. He sighs and scrubs his eyebrow harshly.

 

It’s from a ‘Mr. John Morrison’. Addressed to John Morrison  _ Jr. _

 

He tears into the envelope with a snarl on his face. Gabe’s eyes flicker over to Jack in concern.

The hands that tear at the paper with rising anger soften when he actually opens up the envelope.A pressed flower--a bluebell-- falls out of the folds of the concealed letter. The writing is sloppy and like chicken-scratch, it’s Ma’s handwriting.

 

_ Dear Johnny-- _

 

God. All these years later and she still calls him that. Jack already regrets beginning to read.

 

_ This is not the first letter I’ve written you. I know this. I know you, Johnny. But I hope it’s the first that is able to finally find you. I hope it’s the first that you’ll read, and the first that you just might reply to. _

 

_ The household is keeping up well. The roof you and your daddy patched up back before your deployment still holds strong against the wind and rain. The front window shutters still don’t sit right on their hinges no matter what I do. We got the chimney cleaned out so we can finally start making use of it once it gets colder. The farm is doing well too, all things considered--the war hasn’t reached us yet and the border skirmishes have stopped since they closed all the borders down.My apricot and cherry trees did so well, you’ll have to come visit soon to see them! We just started weaning the lambs born this last spring and Earl came by to help with the shearing. You should’ve seen them-- this one ewe gave your daddy such a hard time and they were absolutely covered in wool and dirt by the time they were done!  _

 

_ The ladies from church and PTA would give me snacks and candies to ship to you, but I bet those don’t make it to you either so I stopped taking it from them. They’re good people and money’s a little tight all around. They send their love and prayers. They ask after you, they ask me how you’re doing. I tell them you’re doing just fine and are perfectly safe wherever you’re stationed. _

 

_ I wish I didn’t have to lie to them. I wish I knew for myself exactly how you were doing. _

 

_ I wish I could see you, Johnny. I wish I could hold you in my arms again. I miss you so bad, baby. _

 

_ You’re father misses you too, in his own way-- _

 

Jack looks away from the letter and gets up. He paces the tent, looking for something to occupy his hands and mind, both now racing. He tries not to think about Gabe still being in here, watching him.

 

Bullshit. It’s all bullshit. 

 

_ In his own way-- _

 

At least she got that part right. Just thinking of Pa right now sends torrents of angry thoughts through his head. He’s glab none of them escape his mind. Jack shakes his head, stomps over back to the letter and swipes it up off the ground. He locks eyes with Gabe before turning away and planting himself on Ryder’s cot. He keeps reading.

 

_ He misses you baby. _

 

_ We both do. Sorely. I still don’t understand why you had to leave us for boot camp. I don’t understand how you could leave your father and I like that so soon after Diana-- _

 

**PHILIP** . Philip.  _ His  _ name was  _ Philip _ .His baby  _ brother _ \--Diana stopped existing years ago. Diana stopped existing the moment Jack found a six year old Philip hiding and crying underneath his bed easter morning. He buried his head and stuttered out sobs into Jack’s shoulder because Ma was trying to put him in dresses  _ again _ . Because Ma wouldn’t stop calling him  _ her beautiful baby girl _ .

 

Jack can’t hide the mounting disgust churning in his stomach. He doesn’t even bother reading the rest of that paragraph. He skims the letter in pure defiance. A savage swell of pride takes hold for a moment, knowing that he finally has control over how much bullshit he’s willing to hear from them.

 

_ I’ve heard through the grapevine that you’ve done well for yourself in the military. _

 

_ I am proud of you. You’ve always made me proud. _

 

_ You’re father and I are afraid though. We’re afraid for you. The news about the omnics just gets worse and worse by the day it seems--but I’m sure you know more about that than I do. _

 

_ Please be safe, Johnny. Please please be safe.  _

 

_ We already buried one child. _

_ We don’t want to bury you too. _

 

_ Please write me back if and when you can. I want to talk to you, hear your voice. _

 

_ We both do. _

 

_ We love you. _

 

Jack’s hands are shaking as he haphazardly folds up the letter into a ball and shoves it violently into his pants pocket. It sits bulging out from his leg, half torn up and crumpled. He busies himself by trudging up to his uniform jacket, which hangs from one of the many clotheslines suspended from the tent ceilings. He takes a pair of sewing scissors to it, ripping out and cutting off any stray strings or loose threads hanging off the pockets or button holes. His hands forcefully smooth out any creases or folds on the sleeves or sides. He sees red. He almost doesn’t hear Gabe over his own anger.

 

“Do you want me to leave?”

 

Jack turns owlishly to Gabe, who is now on his feet. In one hand, is the fragile bluebell that Ma left in the letter for him. Gabe’s steps are slow and deliberate, he doesn’t get too close.

 

“You’ll have the whole tent to yourself, for at least another few hours. And I can cover your CQ duty by myself if need be.”

 

“You don’t have to go. You--can stay.” Jack hates the growing rasp on the edge of his words.

 

Gabe nods to Jack, then himself. He inches closer, sidling up to Jack.  He gently places the pressed flower on a crate to the side. He inspects Jacks uniform with his own sewing scissors he produces from his boot. He scans the blouse with a calmer eye and steadier hand.

 

Jack braces for a line of questioning that doesn’t come. His shoulders are locked stock-still with tension. His jaw clenching so hard his molars start to hurt.

 

“....You missed a thread here,” He says as he snips the offending strand off the collar of the uniform. Gabe’s voice is rounded and muted, but oddly grounding. Gabe clicks his tongue against his teeth as he tilts his head this way and that.

 

_ Snip _

 

“Another here….” 

 

_ Snip _

 

“...Ah! Here we go--little bastard--another here.” 

 

With each snip of the scissors, and every passing comment from Gabe, Jack rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. His form grows slightly more slack. Gabe retreats and comes back with  lint roller. He blinks to Jack, asking permission. Jack’s mouth flattens and Gabe takes the go ahead. They work in silence, preparing and tidying up his jacket. Then spare pants. Jack feels a growing sense of loss once they’ve finished off his uniform. He expects Gabe to start asking real questions or to go back to his mail. But he does neither.

 

“Hey-um. You want to help me out with mine? Of course, I don’t expect help from a subordinate with my own items if--”

 

“That--that would be nice. I mean. I surely wouldn’t mind.”

 

They set to work. Scanning over uniforms and working around one another. Jack flattens out the wrinkles while Gabe sets to work sewing up a hole he hadn’t spotted growing at the seams of his collar. As Gabe threads the needle he cracks a joke to Jack that Jack rolls his eyes at. He retorts in kind, earning a grin and chuckle from Gabe. They banter and bullshit and gossip. All too suddenly Jack forgets his anger and his flushed face pales back into normalcy. Once or twice they bump shoulders accidentally. And a few times they brush against each other on purpose.

 

The conversations are eternally light and harmless in tone. Gabe shares that he’s a capricorn. Jack  learns that Gabe loves basketball and played wide receiver on his high school's football team back in the day. He is the second eldest child and the only son in a family with seven other sisters. His mother was a celebrated prosecutor and his stepfather owns a textile shop.

 

Jack in turn shares that he’s a staunch libra. Gabe learns that Jack is a huge fan of NASCAR, which may as well be the national bird of Indiana, his home state. He played shortstop on his high school's baseball team. His mom and dad are both farmers and big figures in their local parish.

 

Jack says nothing about siblings.

 

Before long the natural lights of day have dimmed and given way to the harsh glares of industrial brightness offered by the lampposts edging the perimeter of the camp.

 

Personnel trickle back into the tent in small groups and a constant hum of low conversations fill the arid air.

 

Jack and Gabe are talking about a mutual love for controversial and classical literature when Ryder’s voice cuts over all the chatter.

 

“Nah man it’s a fuckin’ conspiracy and I left my tin foil hat back home in Alabama so I ain’t buyin’ it.”

 

“I’m telling you man, an international strike force. Independent but supported by the UN.” 

 

Ryder sits across from Vang. They’re arguing. The others crowd around them, crossing their arms, nodding, and humming as if they are all scholars deadlocked in the academic debate of the century.

 

Ryder scoffs. “Please, the UN doesn’t support anything they can’t control. They’re like the overzealous PTA soccer mom of the world. They don’t let their shitty kids do anything they don’t have full oversight of.”

 

Gabe’s dad senses must be tingling, because he sets the needle and thread down and stalks over to the crowd, readying himself to break up a fight at a moments notice. The loss of warmth and companionship at Jacks side is enough to make him leave his seat as well, trailing after Gabe.

 

Vang takes a deep swig of a pocket sized flask he concealed on the inner band of his belt. He shakes his head. “I’m telling you…..if there’s something like this forming….this omnic threat must be worse than we thought--”

 

“Still calling bullshit though. Everyone’s out for themselves. Germany has the Crusaders. Sweden has the Ironclad Guild. Russia’s doing whatever-the-fuck they’re doing. And the US has--well-- _ us. _ ”

 

Ryder looks up to see Gabe and Jack standing over his shoulder.

 

“Oh shit. Hey dad--mom.” Ryder plants his foot on Dodson’s sitting form to his left and effectively kicks him over and out of the way. Dodson doesn’t expect it coming at all. He squeaks and falls over into Velez’s lap. “Take a seat.”

 

“What are you two arguing about now?” Gabe says as he grounds himself.

 

“ _ Well,  _ Vang apparently thinks the real life justice league has graced us with their presence and is prepared to save the world from the omnics for us. Put us out of a job more like it. I think he’s full of shit and no such thing exists.”

 

“....Justice League….like--Superman and Batman?” Jack asks, puzzled.

 

“ _ Apparently. _ ” Ryder says. “Hey--hand that over.” His hand makes a ‘gimme’ motion and Vang grunts, handing the flask over to Ryder.

 

Jack and Gabe look to Vang for answers. Vang’s bloodshot eyes narrow at them as he squares his shoulders.

 

“You two ever hear of the Overwatch Initiative?”

 

Jack looks over to Gabe for answers. But Gabe just makes a face back at him.

 

“Overwatch….can’t say I’ve ever heard of it.” Gabe takes a shot in the dark. “That some new sector of the Peace Corps the UN pushing for…?”

 

Vang shakes his head gravely. “You’d think--but--no. Word on the street is this…. _ Overwatch  _ is some brainchild of the under-secretary generals doing. An international task force that pinpoints and executes critical missions in priority locations. The UN is gonna give this group all the autonomy and funding it needs. Now they just need the bodies to carry out these missions.”

 

Ryder snorts around the flask. “They’re recruiting for superheroes? Trying to find a guy to wear the blue suit and cape? Someone to put on the black spandex and hood?”

 

“In simplest words. Maybe yea. This world could always use more heroes. Is it so bad to hope for some backup? Because we--” Vang scans the room, all eyes on him. Jack sees a flicker of sobriety and weariness in his eyes. He weakly gestures with a hand.

 

“--We can’t do this alone.”

 

Ryder puts the flask down. Dodson sits upright and coughs into the crook of his arm. Yohannan kicks a rock at his foot and walks off without a word. Gabe and Jack stare at Vang before exchanging looks with one another.

 

A radio must have been turned on at some point because it's finally quiet enough to hear the crackling of some foreign diplomat deliver the daily worldwide casualty reports.

 

Gabe turns back to Vang.

 

“Where did you hear about Overwatch? How recently? From who?”

 

Vang shakes his head. “I was piss-drunk in the cantina. Can’t even remember their voices.” Ryder hands the flask back to Vang, avoiding eye contact.

 

Jack watches Gabe carefully. He sees the wheels already turning in his head. He knows gabe is already knee-deep in discussion with himself.

 

Gabe looks up. The resolve in his voice stales the air around him. “Next time you hear anything about Overwatch, I want to be the first to know. Put me in contact with anyone else you hear discussing it. That clear?”

 

“Crystal.” Vang says, already laying back to finish off whatever alcohol Ryder left for him.

\-------------------------------------------

Jack and Gabe lay back to back in the pitch black of the tent. The lights are still on outside, and there’s still personnel milling around, on guard duty or just manning necessary operations. Their shadowy figures, elongated and daunting, dance along the fabric walls of the tent to the tune of countless crickets conversing in the nighttime air.

 

They’re both still wide awake. Gabe is kept away by the thoughts in his head.  _ Overwatch _ . The prospect of such a thing existing, steals his sleep from right under his feet. Jack is awake on principle. He doesn’t want Gabe to be alone in consciousness. Jack stares at the outline of his uniform hanging in front of him. A passerby soldier from the outside carries a lantern in hand. The light shines through the walls and dimly illuminates the uniform. There, in his left breast pocket, he sees it. A pressed bluebell flower. It’s brilliant little petals of weathered indigo poke out from the pockets seam.

 

He doesn’t remember putting the flower there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations & slang:
> 
> CQ duty-Charge of Quarters;duty in which a service member is to guard the front entrance to the barracks/living quarters.
> 
> p lease keep telling me your thoughts they butter my croissants and water my crops


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bless you all for bearing with me and my irregular updates. hope y'all enjoy! please keep the comments coming!

Gabe is ready to throttle whoever thought it would be a good idea to give Major Sawyer a megaphone.

 

Sawyer paces up and down the line. He seems to have totally shed his senile persona, and the last twenty years off of himself. He tromps up and down the line with a youthful vigor, dark eyes shining as they bore into every soldier in his path. His neck flab seems to have their own unique jiggle physics. He stands entirely straight.

 

Gabe used to always think that Sawyer was like a turtle. But he is wrong. His shell is his armor. His mouth is a hardset beak poised to strike out and rip some fingers off.

 

The entire division is at the mercy of none but the summer sun and himself. Everyone but Sawyer himself and his aides stand stock-still at attention, in full formation. Gabe stands in front of his squad, just the same as Volkov and Monroe do in front of their own. Delta still has no official replacement standing at the front.  Gabe wishes he were behind his men, so he could personally watch for himself to see if and when Ryder combusts from standing still for so long.

 

Sawyer continues on the same drawn-out tirade been delivering to the division for the past thirty minutes.

 

“--which brings us here, today!”

 

“Your president, is watching!”

 

Gabe slowly opens and closes his eyes. His eyebrow is starting to twitch and he can feel sweat beading down the side of his face.

 

“America, is watching!”

 

Out of Gabe’s peripherals he can see Monroe slightly bend her posture at the knees before straightening up again. He’s comforted that she’s not the only one who feels about ready to faint.

 

“And most importantly, General Petras….is watching.”

 

Petras. Secretary of Defense. The big man. Gabe remembers hearing Petras’ name for the first time. He’d still been with the Marines at the time, his battalion was receiving some additional training near where he worked. They called him ‘The Director.’ Less an homage to his occupation as head of DoD, and more to highlight his personality; authoritarian, domineering, cynical and suspicious of everyone in his department. Gabe is glad he was still a Corporal at the time--high enough to know what was what--and lowly enough that not too much was expected from him. Petras only met with officers.

 

“Make no mistakes….!”

 

“There. Will. Be. No. Fuck.  _ Ups _ !”

 

_ You’re not a sergeant anymore…...start acting like it…….you’re an officer. _

 

Volkov’s condemnations from earlier sting his spine. Gabe rolls his shoulders back the slightest bit.

 

“Servicemen and women around this world, would sacrifice their very lives to be where you are all standing today!”

 

“Anyone not wanna go?!”

 

**_NO MAJOR SAWYER_ **

 

Rings out from the entire division in unfailing unison.

 

Ryder was right. This shit is  _ on _ .

\------------------------

 

“Leeeeeeet’s see…... _ I  _ spy with my little eye…...something……..pink,” Ryder says, in his garbled hick english. Even if it weren’t for the several layers of bandaging strapped to half his face, the cadence of his southern accent drags his words through the metaphorical mud.

 

Gabe has been sitting in the rear passengers seat, hitting his head against the back of the seat in front of him, where Jack is currently sitting.

 

After Sawyer’s ‘rousing’ speech, he had given immediate orders for the teams to mount up and head out. Yet they’ve been held at the exit gate for what will be two hours in the next five minutes.

 

There’s no word as to why the front guards won’t let them out. And Monroe is just as annoyed and unknowing as he is. He has no comms with Volkov or whoever leads Delta now.

 

Vang is above, having replaced Yohannan on the turret. Drinking deeply and probably napping on the Humvee’s sunroof.

 

Yohannan taps his chin. Scanning outside his window.” The sky?” he guesses.

 

“No-pe.” He pops his ‘p’.

 

Jack scrubs at the back of his beet-red neck. There has never been a worse time or place to be a fair-skinned, irish-american from the midwest. Jack’s entire face, neck, and the tops of his hands glow a sunburned salmon.

 

He winces and makes a involuntary noise of pain under his breath.

 

Yohannan tries again. “Mmmmm….the dirt is kinda pinkish. Ain’t it?”

 

“Actually it’s blood orange, you fucking degenerate.” Ryder downs half a pack of skittles and crumples the baggie up. He throws it at Yohannan’s head. It bounces right off his helmet. 

“Guess again.”

 

“Ryder.” Gabe feels himself grit out. “ Get on the comms with Alpha. See if Monroe’s gotten any updates.”

 

“Youuu got it.” Ryder leans over and starts twisting the dials and knobs to tap into Alpha’s frequency and channel. 

 

“Yohanna. Go up top. Wake Vang up, we might be moving soon. And tell me if you see why we’re being held up.”

 

Yohannan wordlessly slings his pulse gun strap over a shoulder and pops the top of the vehicle open.

 

Gabe turns to Jack. “You.”

 

Jack looks up too suddenly, head slightly tilted and cheeks flushed.“Sir?”

 

Gabe couldn’t be more pissed that the sunburn hasn’t made him any less cute.

 

Gabe looks off to the side, already facing out his window again. “Put some burn lotion on that. Don’t want you looking like a mummy like Ryder.

 

“Daaaaad. Can’t get to Monroe, Velez said she’s walking down the line with the mailbag.” Ryder waves the comm mic at Gabe. Before Gabe can gape, Ryder presses the device closer to his ear, picking up some more chatter.

 

“And before you lose your shit--no--they’re not holding us up for that. Delta’s replacement is running a little late and he’s got our Omnic translator with ‘em.”

 

Gabe sits back and pinches the bridge of his nose as Ryder sets the comm down.

 

“Anyone got any ideas as to why we are invading Omnic-controlled territory with only one translator for Omnicode?”

 

Jack opens his mouth to wager a guess but Ryder clamps a hand over it, waving his other arm in front of Gabe. “Boss!  _ Boss _ . You’re not thinking military enough! The smart thing to do  _ would  _ be to bring a few more omnics onboard, or maybe even hell--find and train a  _ human  _ to speak omnicode--but again, this is the military--”

 

From above, Yohannan begins slamming his fist on the roof, he sticks his sweat-slick head out of the sun roof.

 

“It’s pink! Jack’s face is pink! That’s the pink you saw!”

 

“Fucking-A it is, buddy! There ya go, gimme five, brotha!” Ryder leans up and high-fives Yohannan. Yohannan’s face and arm disappear up top again. Ryder turns to offer Jack a high-five. His other hand still covering Jacks mouth.

 

Jack pushes Ryder’s hand away and sighs into his own lotion slick hands. He fidgets and looks around for a cloth or towel. Without turning, Gabe reaches into his blouse and hands Jack a handkerchief. The initials sewn onto a corner of the fabric, U.R. flutter a goodbye at him.

“...Thank you--”

 

More slamming alongside the Humvee cuts Jack off. Monroe sets the mailbag down heavily and leans into the vehicle, her arms crossed and bracing the window frame.

 

“Ma’am.” Gabe hears Jack greet her with.

 

Still curt. Still polite. Still not quite comfortable.

 

Monroe whistles low and winces seeing Jack’s face. “Yikes, blondie. The sun really got at ya, huh?”

 

Gabe sees Jack frown and sink a little bit further in his seat.

 

Monroe sticks her head in further and waves to Gabe.

 

“Hey, baby.”

 

“Hey, sugar.”

 

“I know you know what I’m here for.” Monroe waggles her eyebrows at them all. “ Last call, gents; send or get your letters now or never.”

 

Ryder pats harshly at his sides before he produces a letter and frisbee-throws it past Jack to Monroe. Yohannan and Vang shower her from above with their own missives. Monroe trades Vang, Yohannan and Ryder with letters she produces from a side pocket.

 

Gabe watches as Jack pulls his own envelope out. It looks like the one from last night. Last he saw, it was a torn up ball of paper. It seems like just has much effort has gone into trying to smooth it back out again. A cartoon cardinal on the front goofily leers at Gabe. It’s hard to miss the harsh lettering below the stamp in angry, red sharpie.

 

‘RETURN TO SENDER’

 

Monroe tosses them in and looks up again, sticking an arm past Jack’s seat.

 

“Oh don’t hold out now, I  _ know  _ you’ve got something for me too.”

 

Gabe smirks and reaches into his jacket.

 

“Besides a booty call? Yea. I got it right here.” 

 

Monroe cackles and throws her head back. 

 

“Oh--honey. Don’t worry. One day you’ll find someone that loves you for more than just your body.” She says in between her laughter.

 

Jack accidentally slips too far back in his seat, his sunburned neck makes contact with the hot leather headrests and he stiffens, cursing to himself.

 

Gabe sucks in a breath as Monroe takes his letter as well. Every mail call, every other week, every opportunity; he’s the first in the mail line to see if he receives anything from anyone back home. He’s the first in the mail line to send in a letter, along with a prayer that it reaches his family.

 

He doesn’t know if it gets to them. Ever since that phone call with mamma all those months ago, he hasn’t had contact since. Monroe tucks it into the bag with much more care than the others. She shoots Gabe a knowing look. Before she leaves, she reaches back in and grabs Gabe’s hand. She squeezes once, smiling. And then she disappears from the window frame.

 

Gabe sees Jack quickly turn away from the two of them.

 

Ryder sits back. “Now--where were we? Oh yea! Yo! Yohannan! You’re turn. Gimme somethin’ to--”

 

Far down the line of vehicles a voice cuts over them all.

 

“No! Absolutely unacceptable! I can’t believe I have to leave all my  _ shit  _ behind like this! I demand compensation--I should be compensated--”

 

“We’re doing everything we can to accommodate you Mr.--er-- R-5T0n3…?”

 

“ _ Stone _ . It’s Stone; make it easy for yourself!. Don’t short out whatever meager circuitry you’ve got operating up there,  _ lieutenant _ .”

 

All five men turn to face the encroaching clamor.

 

A gangling omnic; all black chrome plating with white accents and backlighting stands about five feet tall-- hobbling down the line of vehicles with several bags humped over each shoulder. More bags and luggage adorn each of their arms and what looks to be a baby harness stuffed with a bag strapped to their skeletal chest.They have all the girth and stature of a sickly child. Gabe is surprised all the extra weight doesn’t crush the tin can where it stands.

 

The omnic is flanked by a baby-faced lummox of a man. He has a big head, but small, squinted eyes that are far too close to each other. His big forehead and ears bear the same sunburns as Jacks  but he finds them much less endearing and more concerning, as some of the skin has started to blister; patches of flesh have started to turn sickening shades of yellow and off-white.

 

Gabe turns to look over at Ryder who has the comms pressed to his ear again. Ryder’s eyebrows crease with concentration.

 

“Gabe…..that’s Parata’s replacement; the new officer for Delta--Lieutenant Hyro…” Ryder says in a whisper.

 

Gabe feels an encroaching sense of dread mount up in his throat as the omnic and Hyro draw closer. Gabe looks back at Ryder, at Jack, for some reassurance--he finds none-- before he bites the bullet and leaves the safety of the Humvee.

 

“Can I help you gentlemen?”

 

The omnic and Hyro are halted in their tracks. Stone gazes up at the empty spacing in the back of the vehicle and gasps.

 

“Finally!” He sighs and starts heaving the bags off his skinny shoulders and onto the Humvee. The vehicle rocks back and forth with the force of the weight. Vang and Yohannan are nearly thrown off the roof.

 

Ryder and Jack peer from the inside, they have no mounting wishes to come out and introduce themselves.

 

Hyro approaches and sticks a meaty hand out to Reyes. Reyes takes it-- and immediately regrets it. Hyro is profusely sweaty all over and the palms of his hands seems to shed water. He shakes Gabe’s hand a little to harshly and for too long, as if he doesn’t know his own strength.

 

‘Lieutenant Reyes? I-I’m Lieutenant Hyro--we’ll be working together, I’m rolling with Delta.”

 

“Pleasure to meet you, then.” Gabe grits out. “You’ve got a good squad lined up for you...make sure you look out for them, take care of them.” Gabe thinks of Sherry when he speaks. The young woman without SEP injections or training from the Gauntlet. The anxiety and fear that wracked her form as she spoke of her replacement officer.

 

Hyro seems nonplussed. He almost scoffs. “Take care of  _ them _ ? Last time I checked-- we were here to ‘take care of’ the enemy. My squad’ll do their jobs, with or without me constantly watching their backsides.”

 

Gabe is thrown off-kilter by the remark.

 

“Rest assured. If Delta doesn’t perform to my standards--I certainly will take care of them.”

 

Gabe doesn’t have the time to react or argue when Hyro already motions to the omnic he believes to still be at his side.

 

“This divisions omnic translator’ll be rolling with us. This is--”

 

Stone throws another piece of luggage haphazardly onto the roof rack. It hits Vang headfirst and unlike Ryder’s skittles--serves to deal some damage. He lets out a stunted grunt of pain.

 

“Hey! Hey! Watch it-- _ lieutenant _ ! Call off your dogs!”

 

Gabe and Hyro turn.

 

Yohannan has a snarl on his lips. His machine gun poised and aimed--safety off-- at the omnic. The long barrel stabs the omnic between its eye lights.Vang is behind Yohannan on the roof, clutching at the temple of his head.

 

“Piece of shit just hit Vang! Say the word sir--say the word--and there’ll be one less tin can living--!Say the word!”

 

Hyro is frozen in place, open-mouthed.

 

Yohannan-- unsatisfied with waiting for an answer-- jumps down, screaming, advancing on the omnic, push it back using the gun barrel. “Say the fucking word!”

 

Stone screeches right back at him. “Try it, meatbag!”

 

Jack clamors out of the Humvee just as Gabe yells.

 

“Wh--enough! Corporal Yohannan, stand down immediately! Turn that fucking safety back on!”

 

Jack climbs up on top and secures the luggage onto the rack and off to the side. He unstraps Vangs helmet from his head and starts feeling for injury.

 

Stone is literally steaming from his vents. He rounds on Gabe and Hyro.

 

“Is  _ this  _ how friendly omnics are treated!? I want this man written up! NJP’d! He just threaten to assault me!”

 

Yohannan glares daggers at the omnic, he tries to get closer to Stone again. Gabe presses a solid palm against Yohannan's chest and holds him back.

 

“It wasn’t assault! I was trying to kill you, get it right, tin can!”

 

“Shut the fuck up, man!” Ryder squeaks from inside the vehicle.

 

“Enough! Corporal Yohannan get back inside the vehicle. Sergeant Morrison, treat Corporal Vang inside as well.”

 

Gabe turns to Hyro and Stone, who are still arguing about the grounds of which Yohannan could be punished on.

 

“--Mr.Stone, you are not authorized to stow any additional gear on another squads vehicle. Nor are you allowed to bring so much. Every person assigned on this mission is allowed an additional capacity of seventy-five pounds--”

 

Hyro tries to interrupt, Gabe rounds on him, glaring.

 

“--and as Mr. Stone’s point of contact and hosting officer,  _ you _ should have already briefed Mr. Stone on these matters before your arrival at camp.”

 

Stone and Hyro consider each other.

 

“Now. My squad and I have no problem securing your additional gear off the record as a courtesy to you and our new squad leader here until we all reach the next checkpoint. But I can only extend such a welcoming gesture if you’re willing to drop any charges against my men.”

 

_ Hint Hint _

 

Stone mumbles something under its breath and huffs.

It winds its noodle-like arms together to be crossed against its slender chest and looks up at Hyro.

 

“Just show me to the squad I’ll be traveling with and let’s get this over with.”

 

Stone already begins to walk away as Hyro stares dumbfoundead at Gabe. He thanks him profusely for calling off Yohannan and settling the manner before he stalks off after Stone.

 

Gabe can hear the soft timbre of Monroe’s voice over the crackling comms.

 

Ryder pokes his head through the door. “Hey, Gabe. Alpha’s Oscar Mike. The gate guards ‘r letting us through…...uh-- you ‘ight?”

 

Gabe shakes his head and makes a beeline for the vehicle as the Humvee engine revs to life.

 

“Let’s just get the job done.”

 

\-------------------------------

 

Ryder is halfway through a soul stirring rendition of Dolly Parton’s ‘9 to 5’ when he cuts himself off.

 

“Uh--hey, Gabe. Did Sawyer ever go over what the ROE is supposed to be if we actually run into omnics that  _ don’t  _ wanna kill us? Or what about humans that  _ do  _ wanna kill us?”

 

Jack answers for Gabe. “The Major said any and all omnics are to be considered hostile. As for other humans? We’re not cops, so we’re not to get involved with them at all. I don’t see them getting in our way, anyway.”

 

Ryder scoffs. “Yea. Because humans have  _ never _ been threats to one another, right?”

 

Minutes later Vang can be heard from above, banging on the roof and shouting out, “we’ve

got movement up ahead….about 2 kliks down the road. They’re kicking up a lot of dust.”

 

Gabe’s head is on a swivel. He turns to Ryder just as he hears the radio crackle with activity. Ryder drives with one hand on the wheel and the comm in the other. “Ya. Rosario’s with Alpha, he’s got eyes on ‘em. Looks like a bunch of civilians on hovercycles or bikes--somethin’ like that, headed right for us. ETA’s like...two minutes maybe--”

 

“Vang train your turret on them just in case. Yohannan--Morrison keep your sectors covered. Ryder, get Monroe on comms. I want to know if Alpha’s planning to--”

 

The sudden ripping of tires can be heard down the road. Alpha’s vehicle slows in front of their own, veering off to the right along the dirt road. With all the flat terrain, they can all just make out their company; stark black figures on gleaming bikes of black and red barrel down the road.

 

Ryder suddenly jerks the Humvee to the left, parallel to Alpha. He parks and begins tuning his radio. “Just got word from Volkov, Gabe. He just kicked me off Alpha’s frequency. We’re gonna block ‘em-- but he said not to engage.”

 

Gabe curses under his breath. Don’t engage? Don’t engage with the possibly armed hostile force racing to meet them head on?

 

Rosario, Velez, Dodson and even Monroe, take positions around or in their vehicle. Guns pointed towards the road ahead.

 

Behind him, Gabe can hear Volkov and Hyro’s Humvee’s come to a stop. 

 

Finally the hoverbikes begin to slow, the torrent of dust and dirt behind them settles in the air, shrouding the mounted strangers like a halo.

They stop not a couple hundred feet from their Humvees. It takes everything in Gabe not to sneer. Instead he gets out of the car, takes a knee, and peers into the scope of his shotgun. He hears Jack and Yohannan follow suit.

 

Through the crosshairs, Gabe trains his aim on every single dirty face of every single dirty biker he can make out in front of him. Mostly men, some women--all white-- leer at the vehicles with feigned indifference. No fear to be seen. Some tote rifles on their backs or pistols at their hips. They sit and stand clad in all black and silvery spikes that angrily reflect the sun's light. The leather vests on their backs and chests depict the same image:

 

White winged skulls. Locks clamped between their ivory jaws.

 

DEADLOCK REBELS, in stark white lettering, challenges and taunts Gabe through the scope. He stiffens as a rather large man parked on a hoverbike in the middle dismounts.

 

“Ryder, any word on engagement? They’re armed.”

 

“They’re human, Gabe. Volkov has Sawyer on his comms right now. We still can’t engage.”

 

The man trudges around the side of his bike. Bending over and grasping for something he can’t see. The others on their bikes start to laugh and jeer among themselves. A few of the younger men dismount as well. Rounding their cycles as well.

 

“Keep me posted, Ryd….need to know if the ROE changes…”

 

“What ROE?I meant what I said-- we don’t have any for armed humans.” Jack grits out.

 

“Sir, can I shoot ‘em now?” Yohannan asks from behind the cover of the rear right tire.

 

The rattling of chains piques Gabe’s dread and curiosity. He unfocuses his sights and gazes up at them with a naked eye. Each of the men heaves over their shoulders or in their hands, chains with something at each end. They lug and heave the ends of the chains out towards the vehicles. Each of the ends clatters harshly against the dusty Earth. Their laughter grows.

 

Gabe hears Jack suck in a harsh breath at his side. Gabe didn’t even know how close Jack had gotten to him after leaving the Humvee, but here he is, not an arms length from his side, following the chains length to its end with a growing fear that edges his sky-blue eyes.

 

At the end of each chain there lies scraps of metal; frames, plating, and what look to be little domes. They look like improvised flails. But worse.

 

What looks to be the decapitated head of an omnic adorns the end of one chain. Another proudly displays the stretched out corpse--

 

_ Omnics don’t leave behind corpses _

 

\--stretched frames of chests, legs, arms. Almost entire bodies hang limply from others. One only has a bundle of cords and wires that could’ve been a neck.

 

Out of Gabe’s peripherals, he sees Jacks mouth slowly open. Gabe clears his throat discontentedly as the bikers start to out right cheer and clap. 

 

One woman with too much scraggly blonde hair and not enough teeth cups her hands around her mouth and shouts out to them.

 

“Good to meet fellow patriots! We ‘s fighting the good fight too!”

 

Another man, large and rotund in stature, waves the cap off his head and into the air. His meaty arms are smattered in sunburns and tattoos.

 

“Thank y’ for yer service!”

Jack stiffens at his side and peers into the sights of his pulse rifle. Mouth shut with determination, his expression goes unreadable.

 

“Ryder. ROE.  _ Now _ .” 

 

Ryder frustratedly slams the comm back onto its port.

 

“Sawyer says let ‘em pass.” Ryder slumps back in his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

“ _ What _ \-- Can you you confirm that?”

 

“Orders comin’ from Sawyer himself...trust me--Volkov is shitting himself on the comms right now. It’s why I hung the damn thing up.”

 

“You mean I don’t get to shoot anyone!?” Yohannan whines, “this is bullshit.”

 

Alpha must have already gotten the same orders. Some pile back into their vehicles. Monroe stands and approaches the bikers, waving her arm in the air, high and slow. Hyro and Volkov have already revved the engines of their own Humvee’s.

 

The ‘rebels’ have already mounted up their bikes.

 

“We’re not….. Are we really just letting them go?” Jack asks in a whisper. “Sir?”

 

Gabe considers Jack. He can’t bring himself to speak, so he doesn’t. Just nods.

 

Jacks eyes haven’t left one of the bikers that called out to them earlier. His eyes trace an outline--or lack thereof of the obese mans greasy face. Every shaggy hair out of place. Jack's eye twitches, his hands tense on the rifle.

 

Gabe stands and copies Monroe, waving the bikers down.

 

Slowly, the gang cruises down the dusty roads, past the Humvee’s at an almost leisurely pace, knowing they won’t be harmed. The sound of chains and metal clanking against the gravel rings out like tin cans rattling from the bumper of a wedding car.

 

Gabe’s squad is the last to mount back up. They now find themselves trailing behind Hyro’s vehicle. Wedged in between the supply trucks that joined a few sure minutes later.

 

As the last of the bikes pass, Gabe hunkers back into his seat, covering his sector.

 

“First contact with an armed force in this warzone……..and we wave at them like bitches.” Gabe mutters darkly.

Jack joins Gabe in the rear of the vehicle now, forfeiting his seat in the front to Yohannan. He sits almost back to back with him, seemingly inching closer as the drive continues. Gabe wishes he were comforted by sudden weight and warmth at his side.

 

“Stay frosty, sir.”

\------------------------------------------

  
  


By late noon all four teams have reached and passed their first of many checkpoints along the warpath to Pasadena. They receive the ‘okay’ to halt their vehicles and break for lunch.

 

While Monroe’s squad is quick to join Gabe’s, he notices as Charlie and Delta plant their tarps and vehicles a ways further. He can make out the outlining of Captain Volkov reaching out to shake Hyro’s hand. Gabe snorts and decides his military-ration poptart is much more interesting to look at.

 

Monroe sits across from Gabe. Dodson and Velez flank her on both sides. They dispute a growing rumor among personnel that Britney Spears is dead. They discuss the validity of naming your child ‘Moon Unit’, and generally any other pointless celebrity drama they can remember before they stepped off from camp-- and severed ties from the civilian world for good. Jack is bargaining with Vang, promising him chocolates and cigarettes if he agrees to take his painkillers with  _ water _ and not down them with the flask of rum he has hidden in his jacket. Ryder and Yohannan dig into their MRE’s with all the satisfied complacency of children who finally got McDonald’s after hours of whining.

 

Despite being surrounded by subordinates, Gabe and Monroe couldn’t be more alone.

 

Her stare is deep and unwavering. Iris’ so dark they bleed into her pupils bore holes through his head.

 

_ She wishes _ .

 

It only takes a flick of her eyes upwards before Gabe gets the hint. He stands reluctantly and treads off somewhere quieter. Monroe meets him a few minutes later behind his squads vehicle. As soon as they’re sure they’re both alone, he feels Monroe’s hands on his shoulders. He can’t meet her eyes. A steady hand lifts his chin to meet her gaze.

 

“No letter from her….? What about your sisters? Step-dad?” She dares to ask.

 

“...not a word.”

 

“I swear I checked the mailbag a million times before I started taking letters this morning...I’m-”

She closes her eyes and composes herself. For his benefit, he thinks sourly.

 

“I’m sorry, Gabe.”

 

“So am I.”

 

Gabe feels his resolve crack at the foundations as Monroe pulls him in for a hug. She winds her arms under his and one of her hands comes up to stroke the side of his head. She’s almost his height, she rocks him just the slightest bit. But Gabe knows it’s for her benefit more so.

 

“I’m sure they’re fine. I’ve met your mom. The others--they’re fine Gabe. They are.” She whispers into his ear.

 

“They’ve just gotta be.” Gabe’s voice hitches here and there. He hates how weak he sound. It wasn’t a few hours ago he was barking orders and making threats at his men and other personnel, respectively. It’s been minutes and here he is, falling apart in Monroe’s arms. He returns the hug, he holds her tight. She’s a strong woman, she can handle a strong hug. He lets himself rest his forehead on her shoulder. His breath rattles in his throat. All the while she whispers explanations for his family's radio silence and repeats words of encouragement like a mantra. The contact, the intimacy, for all intents and purposes, is technically frowned upon in all branches of the armed forces. Something as simple as holding hands, hugging, a chaste kiss on the head--can mean serious penalties if the wrong person sees it.

 

Gabe thinks of none of this as he holds Monroe just a little bit tighter. As his breath constricts in his throat. As a wetness circles the edges of his eyes and--when did his legs go numb?When did his hands start shaking?

 

Minutes pass by. On the edge of Gabe’s hearing he can just make out Dodson and Velez’s banter. The intermittent static filtering through the Humvee’s radio. The clatter of helmets and pots. Ryder and Yohannan’s laughter. Vangs joints audibly pop and crack as he probably readjusts to lay down and take another nap. The noise bleeds into his bones. The sun is still warm and bright on the back of his head and skin. Monroe’s fingers slow and steady their motions rubbing circles into his shoulders before they stop completely. Monroe presses her cheek and lips chastely to the side of his head.

 

Reluctantly Monroe pulls back and reluctantly he lets her go. Gabe takes a minute to compose himself, harshly scrubbing at his eyes and scratching the back of his neck as Monroe looks away. For his benefit. Between sips of water from his canteen Gabe tempers voice into something more steady, default of emotion.

 

Monroe considers him again, her eyes sweep his face. “Ready to head back?”

 

“What are we waiting for?”

 

His answer seems to satisfy her, because she smiles to herself before patting him on the arm and disappearing around the corner of the Humvee. Gabe sucks in a breath and turns around to make his way back.

 

Jack is standing there, nonplussed and awkwardly holding the handkerchief from earlier. His eyes skitter to the ground. His lips are flatten to a frown.

 

“You need something, Jack?”

 

“I um. Wanted to return this to you I--washed the lotion and grease out of it.”

 

“Oh. Thanks for-- _ grease _ ? I don’t remember--”

 

Jack sighs. “Ryder took it off me. He needed ‘something’ to clean out the brake fluid valve.”

 

Gabe puts his hands on his hips, shaking his head.

 

Jack sheepishly gets closer, holding out the cloth. “I’m sorry I interrupted…...uh….yea.”

 

Gabe looks up at him through narrowed eyes. A switch flips in Jack head. He’s got that deer in the headlights look again.

 

“I mean….you two. I’m sure--you guys make  a good couple. I won’t--I’m not--I wouldn’t gain anything by spreading rumors or snitching if that’s what your concerned about.”

 

Gabe says nothing. Just staring. It takes every ounce of restraint he has not to laugh, or scream, or walk off. Jack squirms as Gabe takes the handkerchief back wordlessly.

 

“ It’s good that you two have each other like that, you know? My commander and his liaison officer back at Nellis had….”

 

Gabe feels a twitch in his cheek.

 

“So yes--that’s all... _ sir _ .” Jack coughs into his arm. “My apologies, again.”

 

If Jack could have crawled under a rock at that moment, Gabe is sure he would have. Instead he watches as Jack makes do; making a beeline for Ryder and Dodson’s company and hiding his face in his meal.

 

Gabe runs a thumb over the edge of the handkerchief. The little embroidered initials of gilded yellow thread greet Gabe. He traces the little patterns of wildflowers trimming the fabrics edges. He tucks the cloth into his jacket and decides to spend the rest of their break in the Humvee. While the team's eat, socialize and drink. He buries his head and mind in satellite images, battle plans, maps, and unmuting the comms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations & slang:  
> NJP- Non judicial punishment. Form of military justice/ discipline without a court martial.  
> Oscar Mike- Means 'on the move'. Going active or mobile/moving.  
> ROE- Rules Of Engagement. Rules or directives that define the conditions in which the use of force may be applied.  
> ETA- Expected Time of Arrival


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yea

Ryder squints as he speaks with disdain.

 

“I don’t trust ‘em.”

 

Jack looks up, his hands still polishing and cleaning out the barrel of his pulse rifle. It’s caked with pulse residue and gun powder; the end result of a skirmish that took place earlier in the day. 

 

“Them?”

 

“ _ Them _ .” Ryder repeats, as if it answers Jack’s question. He gestures vaguely at a small group of soldiers from every squad sequestered in their own social circle. Rosario, Velez, and a few other personnel Jack isn’t familiar with excitedly chatter to each other in all spanish; they joke, laugh and trade candy from their MRE’s with practiced ease.

 

Jack is a staunch veteran of having taken public-school level spanish for a grand total of two semesters in his student career, yet he can’t make out a word of what the others are saying. He shakes his head.

 

“What if they’re talking about us? What if they are literally shit talking us right behind our backs from twenty feet away. Right now.”

 

“No, they’re not.”

 

“Then why do they have to speak spanish? Speak  _ American  _ goddammit.” Ryder wails.

 

“American isn’t a language, DD--it’s a dialect”, Vang helpfully adds from up top, unseen and uninvited into the conversation.

 

“They’re not talking about us, Ryder.” Jack feels irritation grate at his voice. “Why do you care anyway?”

 

Vang and Yohannan descend from their perches on top of the vehicle and squeeze in between Jack and Ryder.

 

“Don’t you ever wanna know what people are saying when they’re not speakin’ english? You don’t feel a sense of  _ sexy intrigue  _ when you’re tryin’ to decipher their codetalkin’?”

 

Jack rolls his eyes again. He sees Gabe and Monroe approach the small crowd, they part ways, with Monroe taking her leave. But not before she squeezes at one of Gabe’s biceps. She tosses him a wink and smile. He blows a kiss to her as she departs, grinning like a loon.

 

Jack rolls his shoulders, his eyes narrow. He turns to Ryder, who’s already gotten himself into another argument with his squadmates.

 

“--I’m tellin’ you man, they’re like the fuckin’ Dominican mafia over, there. Lookin’ over at us and laughing every other word...”

 

In truth, the small group couldn’t be ignoring them harder if they tried. Rosario says something to Velez, gesturing over to Dodson who keeps a healthy distance away. Velez’s face crumples in dismay and she smacks his arm. Hard. Bullock laughs and takes another puff of his candy cigarette.

 

Vang interrupts. “I’m pretty sure only Rosario and Velez are Dominican…...Gabe’s Mexican and Bullock is...Bolivian? Ecuadorian….?”

 

Yohannan ignores Vang, “they can’t be the Dominican mafia. Do the Dominicans even  _ have  _ a mafia?”

 

“Keep asking questions like that, ‘Catcher’ and you’ll find out.” Ryder spits.

 

“But mafias are italian…...what would a Dominican mafia be called… how  would you even  _ say _ mafia in Dominican--”

 

“Dominican isn’t a language...spanish, you mean?” Vang interrupts, again.

 

“No but it’s where they’re from innit?” Yohannan asks with all the bravado of a seasoned scholar.

 

“You mean the republi--”

 

Jack throws his polishing rag down with a huff and turns to all of them. “I’m pretty sure mafia is still mafia in spanish!”

 

They all go silent, staring at the small crowd. They watch in muted contemplation as Bullock starts trying to toss m&m’s into Rosario’s opened mouth from a few feet away. Gabe shoves Rosario away at the last minute, catching an m&m mid-flight for himself.

 

“I failed spanish in high school.” Yohannan offers with a murmur.

 

“You  _ went  _ to high school?” Ryder scoffs.

 

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose, looking down at the center console. Gabe’s maps of their current location are marked up in red and black ink.

 

He looks up just as the crowd has started to splinter off. Rosario and Velez make for Alpha’s vehicle. Yet Gabe stands, waiting for something. Someone.

 

Monroe approaches again. Her hands bracing Gabe as she passes. He jumps but smiles at the contact. He tosses her a pack of gum he must have traded Velez for. Monroe lets out an exaggerated gasp. She makes a heart  with her hands and the gesture is returned from Gabe. She blows him kisses from the passengers side of Alpha’s Humvee. Gabe waves his handkerchief comically as their Humvee disappears down the dirt road. He shakes his head and makes a beeline for Captain Volkov’s squad. He tosses commands over his shoulder.

 

“Time to mount up! Vang get back on that turret!”

 

Jack has a growing headache. His nerves are fried. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the claustrophobic nature of the Humvee. The lack of moving around. Or maybe it’s seeing his leader not even  _ trying  _ to hide--- _ whatever  _ it is he has with his fellow squad leader. Jack watches Gabe receive updated orders from Volkov, he watches their hands trade papers and maps.

 

“Ryder--you wouldn’t happen to know how long…..you know.”

 

Ryder looks up, halfway through swallowing a mouthful of gummy worms, the rainbow colored treats dangle from his mouth. “Wot.”

 

“How long Gabe and Monroe have known each other.”

 

Ryder reclines his seat, gulping down the gummies. He lowers his Hello Kitty shades back over his eyes. The jet black lenses are framed by cartoonish pink and white kittens. The opaque plastic bores right through Jack’s sights. He can’t make true eye contact with Ryder. It bothers him to no end not seeing the other man's eyes. His eyebrows raise.

 

“Oh, them? Yea. A while. They’re awesome though, aren’t they? They’re like stupid compatible. Maybe it’s ‘cause they were both marines…..” Ryder muses before looking over to Vang for help.

 

“Both 4th battalion recon, to my knowledge they were stationed together for a while down in Texas,” Vang grumbles around bites of his granola bar.

 

“Yea, but for how long?” Jack pushes.

 

“Ummm well they’ve been in SEP longer than us, and served closer to that time in the marines so like--maybe a couple of years?” Ryder shrugs, his tone already turning apathetic towards the conversation.

 

“No--no. I mean how long have they  _ known  _ each other….”

 

Ryder raises his shades off his eyes slowly, his eyebrows still inching towards his hairline.

 

Jack feels his face go warm. He plays defense, crossing his arms.

 

“Don’t look at me like that! You’ve  _ got  _ to have seen the way they are around each other.” Jack can’t help but think he sounds bitter.  _ Jealous  _ even. Of what? Nothing. That’s what--

 

Ryder lowers his shades back over his eyes, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his even sweatier wrist.

 

“The way…?,” Ryder questions leadingly. Jack doesn’t know if he’s squinting at him from behind those stupid shades.

 

“I mean. I was just wondering, you know? They’ve always got their hands on each other and--”

 

A smile Jack can only call evil starts growing on Ryder’s face. It’s all teeth. Vang clears his throat and sits back, removing himself from the ensuing crossfire.

 

“-And--and she’s always all over him, you know? You’d think a female officer would--I don’t know...show a little more restraint? And Gabe’s just as guilty. Anyone could walk in on them ‘n--”

 

Ryder smiles, open-mouthed, his shades now perched on his head backwards. He brings a hand to cradle his cheek. His eyes dart from Vang ,to Yohannan, to Jack.

 

“I’m only trying to look out for him. He’s a good squad leader don’t get me wrong, but something like this could screw him over--and Volkov has this...this   _ thing  _ against _ \-- _ ”

 

Ryder starts jostling Yohannan. His head swiveling from him to Jack like he’s watching a one-sided tennis match.

 

Vang interrupts, again.

 

“What are you  _ asking _ , Morrison?”

 

“I…..”

 

Vang rubs the temples of his forehead. Already regretting asking. Jack looks a little off-put but musters up his courage. He’s already gotten this far.

 

“Have they--you know……..”

  
  


_ “...Canoodled _ ?”

 

Vang stares at Jack, all life drained from his eyes. Looking about ready to fling himself into the nearest ditch.

 

“Canoodled?” He deadpans.

 

Jack replies, shifty-eyed, “......yea-- like-- _ fondued _ ?”

 

“Ho--ly _ shit _ , dude.” Ryder says, his maw opens, stunted laughter begins bubbling up from his throat, sputtering out at Jack like water leaking from a faucet. Slow, then faster, then all at once.

 

Vang sighs heavily, crushing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. Ryder holds his head with both hands.Ryder smacks the headrest, the center console, Yohannan. He doubles over in his seat, cackling in between breaths. Jack’s face feels unbearably warm now.

 

“No-ho-ho…..fucking….way!”

 

Jack looks over to Vang and Yohannan for moral support, Yohannan’s face is blank and neutral, eyes glazed over as he stares out the window as if bored by the sudden commotion.

 

Vang is still giving Jack the disappointed dad look that only Gabe seemed to master. He shakes his head and sighs again.

 

Ryder sucks in a massive breath by throwing his head back, forcing the air into his wheezing lungs. It sounds as if he’s almost drowning. Ryder points a finger at Jack.

 

“You-hoo-hoo….” Ryder pauses to laugh again. “ _ Gabe  _ and  _ Monroe  _ are--”

 

Ryder breaks down into tears after that. Roaring in hysterics.

Yohannan shakes his head annoyed, snapping his eyes to Jack.

 

“Fuck’s sake, Ryder-- The lieutenants are--” A hand gets clamped over his mouth. It’s Ryder, he’s forced himself to sit up again. His other hand rests on his stomach, forcing himself to breathe.

 

“No--nonononono one tell him  _ any--thing _ .” He manages to sputter out.

 

Ryder points again.

 

“This fine gentleman wants answers s--ho ba-had? He should confront them himself.”

 

“I don’t see what the big deal is--”

 

Yohannan’s eyes slide over past them again. A vehicle door opens behind them.

 

“Hey, lieutenant.”

 

“You all done dicking around?” 

 

Gabe’s low tenor makes Jack’s blood run cold. Ryder freezes in place. The temperature in the Humvee suddenly drops 20°.

 

Vang takes that as his cue. He holds his flask between his teeth and ascends to man the turret again. Gabe slides into the seat with little scruples.

 

“We’ve gotta make it to the next checkpoint to make camp by O’ dark thirty. We’re burning daylight.”

 

Ryder inclines his seat upright and places the sunglasses squarely on the bridge of his nose.

 

“Aye, sir.” He says, his eyes not quite leaving Jack, and his open-mouthed smile now a simpering shit-eating grin on his face.

 

\-------------------

 

Their next point of contact is Morgan Hill. Captain Volkov expressed Sawyer’s desire to secure the southernmost tip of Silicon Valley before pressing any further south for Pasadena.

 

They’re making great time, Gabe must admit, as he studies the live map on his holopad. Vang seems to have slept off most of his hangover, and his flask ran dry hours ago, therefore making him the most useful he’s been all week. Yohannan and Jack are in different states of silence-- the former being bored and the latter more sullen. He’ll have to ask Jack later if he’s okay.

 

Even Ryder seems almost halfway normal.

 

_ Almost. _

 

By this time of day he’s already packed away multiple  _ Bang Energy™ _ drinks and sugar packets; his caffeine pills ran out days ago. There’s a slight twitching of his eyes, and his white-knuckled grip on the wheel tells Gabe that his driver may or may not be having heart palpitations while remaining fully functional. Because he’s quiet.

 

Too quiet.

 

“You….good there, corporal?”

 

“My eyeballs have a heartbeat, sir.” He says, unblinking.

 

“Right.” Gabe says, turning back to his device. His map suddenly becomes obscured by an invoice from Monroe, his brows furrow as he opens the application.

 

**_\---I ran some facial scans on those bikers we ran into a while back. I got a hit on a few databases and managed to scrape some stuff up on them. Thought you might be interested in some of it, in case we run into these guys again. They seem to operate from here to as far as Arkansas. Maybe we should tell Sawyer? Get a solid ROE on how to handle something like them?---_ **

 

Gabe sighs as he opens the attached file. Monroe always knew how to make more work for herself. He strongly doubts they’ll come across the same lethal idiots a second time, but he scrolls through endless documents and pictures nonetheless to make himself feel better about it all. 

 

The mental image of a decapitated omnic head strung along that iron chain rattles around in his mind.

 

Ryder is shuffling around the center console beside him, digging for something in one of the many front compartments.

 

Correctional facility mugshots and police reports flood the screen. He swipes disinterestedly through the first half, he saw their dirty profiles once already, he’d rather not look at them a second time. Most of them are of  men of caucasian descent, with prior records of things as petty as larceny and burglary to things as severe as arms trafficking and homicide. A squeaky clean profile catches his attention. A young woman, with dark olive skin and warm hazel eyes. This….‘Jessica Cree’ is the picture of exactly what the Deadlock Rebels would not want in their gang. There’s something almost stately yet personable about her expression, and the sunspots that are smattered across her nose and cheeks make this hardened criminal look younger than she must be. He shakes his head and keeps scrolling.

 

Ryder must’ve found what he was looking for because he hurriedly shoves something disc-like into the Humvee’s music player. Gabe hunkers down in his seat, fearing the worst country music that God himself has to offer his ears.

 

That’s when he sees it. 

 

The name ‘Earl Melville’ joins a mugshot of a rotund man. The tattoos on his arms depict racist imagery that makes Gabe rub the back of his neck to calm the cold anger in his throat. He recognizes him as the man that was calling out to them--to Jack-- earlier. The adjoining picture depicts him as well. It must have been taken several years prior to his first arrests. He stands next to a taciturn man with shaggy blond hair and dour blue eyes. ‘Big Earl’s 24 Hour Service and Hardware’ store sits in the background, surrounded by long stretches of green and brown fields. He looks down and sees two other figures in the photo. A sour looking girl sneers at the camera. She has a messy buzzcut and wears a Sunday dress that may as well have her burning alive in it from her expression. The second is a rather handsome young man in a baseball jersey. A sunny expression on his face as he has an arm looped around his supposed sister.

 

Fair blond hair. Even fairer skin. Pleasant blue eyes that stare  that bore holes through Gabe’s head and heart.

 

Gabe slowly looks over to his right and through his rearview. Jack sits silent, eyeing his sector. He’s a mirror reflection to the kid in the photo, just with older features and more muscle.

Gabe uneasily turns off the holopad and shoves it in a compartment to his side. He thinks of how Jack froze when ‘Big Earl’ called out to them, waving his arm around and thanking them for their service. Jacks borderline anger when they let the Rebels go free. 

 

Gabe can do little more than sigh through his nose and put the tablet away. Not quite sure what to do with the information, if anything. He only looks up again through the rear view, sparing more than a glance at Jack. It’s the first time that he’s really had a chance to look at the man without making it weird for him. Not that staring at someone while they’re unaware isn’t  _ weird  _ or anything….right?

 

The first thing he really notices, what he always notices first--are his eyes;deep and strong in color, reminiscent of an afternoon sky, or a pressed bluebell. Besides that, his nose is long and slightly pointed. Thin lips. A round chin. Monroe would scoff,  _ another plain white boy playing G.I. Joe.  _ Yet Gabe knows Monroe has already developed a soft spot for the sunburned medic sitting in the rear passenger seat. 

 

She wouldn’t be the first, either, he thinks---with the smallest feeling of dread in his throat.

 

\----------------------

 

It is with great relief, pride, and perhaps most overpoweringly of all, annoyance, that Jack has learned to be a little more comfortable around the rest of the squad. Gabe is even able to make some progress with him. There are small pockets of time, periods of absolute calm where it’s just the two of them; whether it be out on border patrols or scouting details, or late nights awake together when they decide the others need some sleep. 

 

It’s become routine. Gabe always starts with a joke he heard from Velez, or a story he blackmailed Monroe into telling him. Jack will quirk a brow ,and he cracks a grin with a wrinkle of his nose. He’ll share something in return-- usually a joke or funny story of his own, but more often than not, Jack talks about pretty boring stuff; his knowledge base concerning anything outside the military includes mostly farming, sports, and random trivia you’d read on the inside of a Snapple bottle. Gabe learns over the next few aggravatingly slow weeks exactly what kind of soil is good for red potatoes, or why the Colts had such a bad gaming season, or why the Indiana state flag has a torch on it. 

 

He learns to love it.

 

Away from the stresses of day to day operations, or dealing with any other personnel, Jack lightens up considerably. 

 

Gabe has come to look forward to those times. Sure, when no one else is around, or awake-- Jack comes seems to come to life around him. But the moment they return to camp, or Vang rouses from his alcohol-induced nap--he retreats socially.

 

Towards Gabe, at least.

 

Especially if Monroe or the other officers happen to be around--oddly enough.

 

Gabe doesn’t linger on these thoughts much though, as he’s interrupted by the incessant looping of the CD player.

 

Ryder’s shitty mixtape he made back home has been duct taped into the confines of the Humvee music player.

 

On top of the duct tape?

 

More duct tape.

 

Gabe has already tried peeling off the sticky layers twice. And twice has he been physically restrained by his mutinous squad, who now sit shrieking out the lyrics to a sappy Celine Dion song from the last century.

 

Even Jack.

 

At least it’s not country.

 

Gabe thinks the torture is over, when the next song hesitates to start. He looks up, hope coloring his bloodshot eyes. His eyebrows raise in optimism. He sucks in a breath of relief, straightening up in his seat--when the first strains of a guitar assault his senses.

 

Gabe slumps back in his seat like a disgruntled child as Ryder slowly, slowly turns away from the window to face his squad leader in the front passenger seat.

 

He opens his mouth and a woman’s voice comes out, soft and sweet in tone,

 

“There’ll be no strings to bind your hands, not if my  _ love  _ can bind your...heart.” Ryder says with a flutter of his eyelashes. 

 

A crescendo of drums reverberates through the vehicle. Gabe snorts, disgusted.

 

Ryder clutches his chest with one hand, his other still holds a loose grip on the wheel, “And there's no need to take a stand….for it was I who chose to start.”

 

“I see no need to take me home--”

 

Another voice briefly cuts off Ryder, before joining in. Melding and clashing with his own like two tone-deaf hurricanes collide to create an equally off-key cyclone.

 

Gabe whips around in his seat. He glares daggers at Yohannan, the guilty party.

 

Yohannan only grins and gets louder, “I’m old enough to face…. _ the dawn _ !”

 

That split second after. It seems like everyone holds their breath. Even the Humvee. The poor old radios crackle miserably, as if Ryder’s mixtape is physically murdering them.

 

If the Humvee lives through this god awful music, Gabe promises the vehicle a proper viking funeral in his head. 

 

A hero’s burial, for a hero’s death.

 

A rumble of drums is all the warning Gabe has before Ryder, Yohannan, poorly irrelevant Vang up top, and worst of all,  _ Jack _ \--

 

“JUST CALL ME ANGEL OF THE MORNING--

 

“Jesus fucking--”

 

_ “--ANGEL _ !”

 

Gabe sighs loudly in his seat. Ryder grips the wheel with both hands, eyes closed, swaying to the music.

 

He feels Ryder slide a damp glove down Gabe’s cheek, mockingly caressing it. Gabe crosses his arms and cracks a grin, laughter bubbling in his throat from the ridiculousness of it all.

 

“JUST TOUCH MY CHEEK BEFORE YOU LEAVE ME--

 

_ BABY _ !”

  
  


Where Ryder, Yohannan, and Vang, sing to mock, to tease, and alleviate boredom, Gabe spots Jack in the rearview. 

 

As the song progresses, he gets more into it. Swaying just like Ryder, singing in earnest. His eyes scrunch to mimic the singers softer tones, he bangs his hands against his rifle during the instrumentals. A clenched fist is pressed close to his heart as he screams out the chorus. He smiles openly, absently gazing out his window.

There’s a tightness in Gabe’s throat. That same heady sense of dread closes around him like a vice. He’s about to look away, about to demand Ryder rip off the duct tape, when Jack sees Gabe looking at him through the rearview. Their eyes meet in the mirror. Jack’s face flushes, he shoots an embarrassed smile at Gabe. Gabe reassuringly smiles back. 

 

Only Ryder sings now, his voice too--begins to dwindle with the murmuring of violins and bass.

 

Jack scrubs at his cheek, his eyes point a questioning look at Gabe.

 

That’s right.

 

Gabe mirrors Jack, wiping at the slick sweat trail Ryder left behind when he fondled his face.

 

Jack laughs again. Gabe can’t help but roll his eyes and darts them sideways at Ryder before bouncing back to him again. Jack laughs, open-mouthed and nods, in agreement.

 

An entire conversation in head nods, facial gestures, and smiles. And he enjoys every unsaid word of it.

 

He thinks Jack just might’ve enjoyed it too.

 

\------------------------------------

 

The last straw comes a few days later. While en route to Morgan Hill, the main supply truck suffers a cooling system leak--it’s engine seizes--and all four squads are now under orders to secure and repair the truck before pressing forward. Soldiers clammer over each other to complete a one man job. They’ve all been stuck in the blistering heat for a few hours now. As the day and people’s tempers run short, even more personnel crowd the cursed engine.

 

Gabe and Monroe have gathered a crowd of their own. Squad leaders are the closest thing these soldiers have to rock stars or celebrities.  They think simply hanging around them and striking up a conversation with their officers will earn them bragging rights. And those two know how to entertain a social circle, evidently.

Gabe is mid-joke when Monroe leans over and grabs his shaving razor from an opened pocket on his jacket. He stills as she runs the blade over a few stray hairs on his chin and upper lip. She chides him.

 

“ _ Reybay _ ….always gotta fix you up, I swear.” She tsks, taking something out of her own pocket. A familiar little favor with little embroidered flowers is run over his replacing the razors edge.

 

“Mm. Looks like you’ve got some chafing here...I could hook you  _ up _ .” She says, running her knuckles across his neck and cheeks.

 

“I’m sure you could.” Gabe says, meeting her eyes.

 

“Listen. I’ve got some lavender oil-- a little bit of almond butter back in my Humvee.  _ You  _ grab the Celine Dion mixtape and neutrogena--”

 

Gabe chuckles low and ducks his head. The others join in as well. The playful grin she shoots Gabe makes Jacks stomach flip.

 

“Am I pushing you, baby? Am I goin’ too far?” She murmurs something under her breath that only Gabe and the small group hear. They burst out laughing as Gabe raises his hands in defeat and slinks down on the ground next to Ryder, who squats heating up some coffee from an electric kettle.

 

Jack absently brushes a hand over the pocket where he found the flowers in all those weeks ago. He makes a beeline for Monroe.

 

“Lieutenant Monroe?”

 

Any sense of courage or resolution Jack has worked up for himself since his conversation with Ryder dries up in an instant. All eyes on him.

 

“Sergeant. ‘S nice of you to join us.” Monroe says over her cup of ‘coffee.’

 

“Decided to take a break? Join the rest of civilization?” She gestures absently to the unimpressive gathering.

 

“I--uh. Just spoke with Dodson.”

 

A lie.

 

“He got orders from Captain Volkov for the squad leaders. He wants foot patrols to secure the perimeter while the supply truck is fixed.”

 

Another lie. But a better one.

 

“I’m looking for volunteers.”

 

Half a dozen hands shoot up in the air automatically. None of them are Monroe’s, but none of them are Gabe’s either.

 

“Ooh. Ooh. Me! Me! Yo, right here!” Ryder says excitedly, waving around the thankfully empty coffee pot. Yohannan flinches and dives behind Vang on instinct anyway.

 

Monroe quirks a brow. “Why not ask Lieutenant Hyro’s squad? He’s got quite a few green personnel on his team.  _ They  _ could use the legwork.”

 

“Meeeeeee!”

 

“I already asked. Hyro’s got half of them--um. Fixing the truck.”

 

A half-truth. He hadn’t asked him, nor had any intention of doing so. Both Hyro and Volkov have had their people sweating in the sun for hours now, taking apart the trucks engine and offloading perishable supplies. One of their own medics, a non-SEP soldier named Sherry, collapsed of heat exhaustion two hours in.

 

Gabe shakes his head. Eyes glowering into his own cup. Upon hearing her name, Gabe’s eyes flicker to Monroe, then to Jack. He excuses himself wordlessly, and stomps off in the direction of the defunct vehicle. Ryder slowly lowers his hand.

 

Monroe sighs, still watching Gabe’s retreating form. She braces her hands on her knees before forcing herself upright.

 

“By all means, Morrison. Lead the way.” Monroe says, slinging her rifle strap over a shoulder.

 

\----------------------

 

Monroe is a lot taller up close, Jack realizes with a sinking feeling.

 

Every now and again he steals a glance at her statuesque form. How the lights between the rows of trees and greenery flicker and bounce off her refined features. How they warm her bunned braids of woven ebony. Despite her overbearing command presence, there’s a tenderness to her walk, a permanent ease set into her laxened shoulders, a constant thoughtfulness in her deep dark eyes that scan the songbirds that sit perched above their heads.

 

There’s no shortage of things Gabe could love in such a woman.

 

“That one….” Jack looks up, following Monroe’s raised finger.

 

“That’s a chickadee.” Monroe says smiling. “Sounds like a mouse..”

 

Jack hums. Awkwardly adjusting the grip on his rifle.

 

“And that one? The one with the yellow--black head? That one’s a goldfinch.” She says.

 

“Cool.”

 

“Gabe had told me there weren’t many birds left in the area….a lesser consequence to  having an invasion of sentient, human-hating omnics run amok. But look-- here they are. In plain sight. I guess Gabe just needed to pick his head up a little higher--”

 

“Didn’t know you like birds.” Jack says maybe a little too quickly.

 

Monroe makes a face, “I don’t actually. Can’t stand the little noisemakers actually. They’re like little winged rats to me, honestly.”

 

Jack can’t help the brief frown on his face.

 

Monroe shrugs. “But Gabe likes them...he prefers ravens or barn owls but that old softy would sit out and listen to the birdsong for hours if he could back in Texas.”

 

“I’m told you two were marines together…”

 

“I was his immediate superior back in San Antonio. Back before either of us were officers. He’d just gotten out of basic, actually.

 

Monroe stops short, making Jack stumble the slightest bit. They’d been keeping perfect pace up to now.

 

“But that’s not what we’re here for, is it?”

 

“We’re not here to talk about goldfinches, or birdsongs, or Texas, or even the marines.”

 

Jack involuntarily clenches his teeth.

 

“This is about Gabe, right?”

 

He feels nothing but utter betrayal towards his body as he nods his head. Monroe nods soberly in return.

 

“Hold this--” She shoves her rifle into Jacks already full arms. He lets out a small ‘oof’ under his breath.

 

Monroe digs out Gabe’s handkerchief and a small polaroid with it. Jack didn’t even know those things still existed. She hands him the photo, which he juggles nervously between the two live firearms now in his possession. She folds the handkerchief absently as she talks.

 

“That’s me on the left, before I deployed here. The girl in front of me is my eldest daughter, Jayla. Next to her is my son, Elijah.”

 

Jack studies it. Two beautiful children as breathtaking as their mother are all goofy smiles and laughter in the photo.

 

“They’re….” Jack isn’t all too sure what to say. Ma could go on for hours, gushing about anyone’s kids that weren’t her own. Jack never acquired that skill from her.

 

“--pretty nice--”

 

“My wife is on the right.” Monroe deadpans.

 

“Oh that’s nice--wh--” Jack stops, eyes widening.

 

Monroe steamrolls him, verbally. “Her name’s Alidda. She’s a psychologist. We’ve been married for eight years. I’ve only known Gabe slightly less than that. He’s Jayla’s godfather.”

 

Jack looks up guiltily to face Monroe’s now stony-expression.

 

“You brought me out here to accuse me of sabotaging Gabe, right? To ask if he and I were an item or something?If we’ve been……”

 

Jack blinks hard and slow, regretting his life at the moment.

 

“ _ Canoodling _ ?”

 

Mother-Fucking- _ Ryder _ .

 

Jack gulps, his sweaty grip on his own rifle slips. He lets it fall in order to save the photo. 

 

They both kneel into the dusty earth, he scrambles to rescue the weapons. Monroe clears her throat.

 

She clamps the handkerchief over his knuckles, holding his hand in an iron grip. She stares head-on. He voice is a venomous whisper. “I would  _ never  _ do anything to jeopardize my best friend’s career. And I would  _ never _ cheat on my wife. We are both officers and how we choose to conduct ourselves outside of a firefight is at our own discretion.”

“I wouldn’t….that is to say--I never meant to--”

 

“I know that..!” Monroe  barks out. She catches herself after that, closing her eyes, taking in a breath. Her voice goes gentler, that thoughtfulness floods back into her eyes. 

 

“I  _ know  _ that…I, I am just very protective of my friend--my brother, really. And you need to know that  _ I  _ will not be the one trying to tear down his career.”

 

Jack nods in earnest understanding. “I read you. And...I apologize, ma’am. It’s like you said. I’m just looking out for my leader ‘s all…” 

 

Jack puffs out a laugh, trying to make the tone lighter, “I just never figured you’d--y’know, have a wife waiting back home.”

 

“That’s ‘cause it’s none of your damn business,” Monroe says with a sneer.

 

He rubs the back of his neck, feeling like the biggest jackass in the world.

 

He readies himself for another apology when he sees the fringes of Monroe’s frown fray. She snorts and starts to laugh, she pushes his arm goodnaturedly.

 

“I’m just fuckin’ with you--I love my wife, and I’d scream it from the rooftops if given the chance. Jesus Christ, Blondie, you’ve should’ve just asked me sooner….”

 

They raise themselves to a standstill and begin walking again. Jack shoots a glance at the threadbare fabric in his hand. Monroe handles the two bulky weapons in her arms with ease. She takes the photo back and tucks it into her jacket, pressing the photo against her heart for the briefest moment.

 

The rest of the patrol almost goes well enough. Any lasting humidity burns itself out with the passing of the day. A comfortable lull overtakes the pair. It’s not quite the same as with his squadmates. And any feeling around  _ Gabe  _ is in an entirely different league of its own but-- he can see why the others gravitate towards Monroe.

 

As they amble back, neither of them notice when the birds stop singing. The cicadas go still and silence their squelching in the shrubbery.

 

It isn’t until Jack spots something inorganic and bright streaking across the sky that has his head on a sudden swivel.

 

His eyes snap to another set of artificial flares in the distance.

 

Jack hardly has enough time to react. But Monroe has.

Jack feels the wind being sucked from his lungs as he’s tackled to the ground. She flattens her much skinnier form over his own.

 

A blaze of orange and and red blur his vision as it burns an angry trail into the ground mere feet from where they were walking.

 

The cloud of debris had swept over them before he even heard the  ground-vibrating explosion. With a sense of ugly shame, he kept his head low, his hands shielding his own neck.

 

More angry claps of synthetic lightening hurtle to the ground with an ear-piercing screech. The last one blasts Jack and Monroe both back a good few feet more.

 

Through hazy eyes, the world spins muffled and muted above Jack. There’s a warmth over his middle and neck that he doesn’t have the capacity to decipher.

 

On the edge of his hearing. Jack can no longer make out the gentle warbling of a birdsong.

 

Instead, all he hears is the distant popping of gunfire that replaces it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gabe and monroe are PEAK mlm & wlw solidarity


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a little over a month, this was tough to write, and i'm new to fight scenes. sue me.

Fuzzy blue and red lights flicker and fold on the edge of Jack’s vision. They meld-- muffled and muted into shades of angry purple. Nothing like the soft hues of lilac tinting the petals of Ma’s favored violets in the backyard. No. More like the tinges of plum that adorned Jack’s torso after one baseball practice gone wrong. Or the clouts of lavender that suddenly seemed to swath his brothers back and arms whenever Pa would catch him wearing Jack’s clothing. They blare, clashing against one another in offbeat rhythms.

 

The sun above is blinding, it makes Jack squeeze his eyes closed to the point of pain.

 

He dares to crack an eye open despite the overwhelming discomfort. Shaking his head, Jack feels a shower of glass fall from the folds of his sweat-slick hair. Almost immediately, strange hands are on him-- pinning his head still-- force feeding him the suns predatory glare. He closes his eyes again.

 

Jack’s breath is already uneven and stuttery when he feels his throat closing further. He can feel his arms and legs coming up to move in a purely blind panic as the strange hands tighten something around his neck. The hard plastic and foam forces his head even more straight.

 

Other hands bind him at the torso, arms, and legs, to whatever he’s laying on now--he isn’t sure--last he remembered he had the car seat totally upright--  _ when did I lay down? _

 

At least the sirens have stopped. It’s hard to hear the birdsong over them.

 

The ground below him moves, and so does he. His eyes skitter what his peripherals and the sun will allow him to see. Not allowed to move hands or legs, or head, he chokes out a noise despite the confines of whatever restrains his neck. A face-- no more strange hands-- belonging to a woman with shifty eyes and schooled features analyzes his face in seconds. She tells him to stay still, to not speak. She smiles in a way that Jack thinks was supposed to be reassuring. At least the palm of her hand is cold, liberatingly so. When she pulls it away, her gloved palm is splotched an ugly brown and red.

 

A scream erupts from behind the lines of the police’s barricade of neon taping. A few more beats of yelling and arguing and the owner is above him now, staring down. Jack wishes whoever it was would move just a few inches closer--the sun is still in his face.

 

Pa’s normally dour eyes of ice blue are puffy, and his ruddy cheeks are slick wet. Jack can’t tell if the man's sweating or crying--maybe both. His mouth forms words but Jack can only hear birdsong and something else ringing out loud. The woman puts a hand on Pa’s shoulder and he disappears out of view. The sunlight still burns through jack’s fluttering eyelids.

 

He starts to move again.

 

He gets closer to the manic blaring of red and white lights. The blue and red fades from his line of sight entirely. He’s glad for it. His whole body is tilted and jostled, everything from the torso--up is lifted vertically. An ambulance. They’re putting him in an ambulance.

 

He faces a man in uniform, all navy and blue. His face is even more schooled than the lady now with Pa. He doesn’t say anything to Jack.

 

Something stubborn in him forces his straining neck to turn even more upright than what the brace should allow-- he forces a view behind the man’s shoulder.

 

Another gurney--a ways back is hurriedly being covered up by dark sheeting. Jack almost misses the tufts of bloodied blond hair poking from out from the folds of the fabric.

 

All ability to breathe floods from his body in an instant. He exhales out a yell, gasping out for oxygen that isn’t there. This makes the man facing him react, he looks over his shoulder back at the gurney-- 

 

No.

 

_ No. _

 

_ Philip _ .

 

His baby brother. Wearing a pair of borrowed weather worn jeans and a shirt of yellow-white flannel two sizes too big for him. The sunday dress and wig Pa forced Philip into-- laid long abandoned in the back of the now demolished pickup truck.

 

He chokes out a scream. He wishes the lady was at his side; with her unsteady smile and cold hands-- to wipe away the wet warmth now racing down his cheeks in twin trails. His heart rattles, clenching in his chest watching them wheel his brother away to another ambulance he can’t see.

 

The man scowls and pounds on the side of a door-- Jack can still feel himself screaming bloody murder. The violence of his shouts makes his head throb.

 

The man barks out orders to the strangers behind Jacks shoulder;

 

The doors are slammed shut.

 

The sun is finally out of his eyes for good.

\---------------------------------------------------

 

It was cloudy on the day they buried Philip. His first memorial service is rained out. The wave of colder weather that interrupts their Indiana summer makes Jack’s joints and muscles ache in the hospital. he refuses to get out of bed; taking him several extra weeks to recover. The weather only prolongs the pain.

 

It hails the day Jack submits some final paperwork in to the local military recruiter-- just months after that.

The recruiter quirks a brow at some of the fallacies in his medical records, how he as a history of injuries congruent with an accident, but no surgeries or hospital visits blemishing his record. But times are hard, recruiting numbers are low, and there’s word that several omnic AI’s have just activated on the Canadian border and along the west coast.

 

The recruiter shakes Jack’s hand and silently prays to himself as he issues his acceptance papers.

 

He watches the boy leave his office with dread, noticing the slightest limp in the young blonds step.

 

He hopes he didn’t just sign away a waste of a uniform.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

 

Jack startles upright, his eyes snapped open. The back of his neck is cold with sweat. His eyes scan the area for some semblance of understanding the situation he’s in. His hands scramble for a gun. He looks to see Gabe’s little fabric favor still safe in his white-knuckled grip.

 

He hears a yell of frustration followed by gunfire, and Jack throws himself bellyfirst back onto the ground. He looks up to the shallow swelling of the hills on either side of him. The walls of the hill are moist to the touch, with patches of roots,clusters of bugs, and rocks sticking out at odd intervals. Some sort of ditch then. Jack is slow to crawl up the side, daring to poke his head up.

 

Before immediately ducking for cover once again, as a dismembered Bastion head sails just a few inches over his own.

 

“Son of a--- _ bitch _ !” 

 

Monroe.

 

Jack scrambles for a gun, his sopping gloves pounding against the sifty earth in search. But the best he finds is the combat knife wedged beside his empty sidearm holster. Several breaths later, and Jack throws himself over the side of the ditch, knife in hand. His eyes dart across the landscape to spot the first omnic to take aim at him.

 

His knife almost joins his jaw on the ground at what he does see.

 

Monroe kneels, her ungloved hands firmly grounded into the dusty earth. Her face set in a scowl as she screams. A bastion looms over her, suspended in the air by what look to be unearthed tree roots and branches. The roots grip around the bastion tightens, eliciting an unearthly screech from the miserable machine. With a violent jerk of her head to the side the bastion is thrown headlong into the air. 

 

For machines that aren’t supposed to feel anything, Jack can’t help but flinch as the bastion makes contact with the ground again, instantly imploding in on itself. The pained popping of circuitry and snapping of springs rouses Monroe out of what seems to be a minor stupor at herself. She uneasily lifts herself from the ground, dragging her legs one after another; as if the weights she wears for a run finally started to hold her back. She unsheathes the combat knife at her side and plunges it into the wiring that makes up the junctures of the Bastions neck and shoulder.

 

Stutters of red light flicker from its eyepiece. Jack shakily approaches Monroe from behind.

To his fear, the omnic slowly--slowly turns its head just the slightest bit, locking its eyelight with his own gaze. 

 

He holds a breath as Monroe’s nose scrunches while plunging the knife a little deeper, twisting her wrist with the motion.

 

The eyelight flickers to a sharp neon blue. For three beats it blares at them both, before being replaced with a deathly darkness. Its head bows, its joints laxen with the motion; as if it were gracefully surrendering to its eradication. The omnic stills.

 

“Had to….take the thing down--it was about to activate Sentry mode…...had to….” Monroe speaks between stolen gulps of air, returning her knife to its holster. She turns to him. The sight of Monroe’s face makes something jump in Jack’s throat.

 

The veins that framed her strong face bulge from beneath the skin, swollen beyond a healthy size. Colored a disarming shade of green. Running down her forehead and up her neck like angry tendrils of mossy rivers. The ends of vessels frame her eyes; the sclera once a healthy white, stare at him with an artificially yellow fervor.

 

Monroe looks down at her arms--the veins running up and down their lengths are a pulsing green as well, but the swelling only begins to lessen when she looks back up to an open-mouthed Jack, puffing out laughter that almost sounds nervous.

 

“Oh--yea-- _ that _ . Well...SEP injections are a _helluva_ drug, huh?”

 

“What the fu--”

 

“I’m  _ fine _ , blondie. Really. Don’t worry-- your pretty little head about--”

 

“How did you--”

 

“ _ Listen _ .” Monroe braces Jack’s shoulders with both hands, in the way that he always saw her with Gabe. Her dusty fingers clench, digging into the meat of his shoulder blades. The small pinches of nails are oddly grounding. He finds it hard to look away.

 

“We have been separated from our teams. Our comms are down. And several Omnic units just dropped from the fucking sky. We have to get back to our squads.” She speaks in soundbites; short, clipped pieces of information made as easy to swallow as baby food.

 

Jack would’ve thought it was for his benefit-- if her uneven breathing didn’t worry him so.

 

“We need to get back to our squads so--” Monroe pulls away, and Jack slightly sways as the anchoring weight of her presence leaves his own. She shoves her pulse rifle into his arms, trading it for Gabe’s handkerchief.

 

“Save the questions for later, sergeant Morrison.”

 

Any question drains from his mind in an instant. Monroe’s eyes are a dim torrent that brook no argument.

 

“I read you.” Jack grits out, adjusting the grip on his rifle. His eyes still linger longingly on the handkerchief Monroe stuffs into her flak vest.

 

\------------------------

Gabe throws himself chestplate first into the shallow dipping of a ditch below. His flak vest pounds against the sand with a miserable thud.

 

“Contact right, contact right! Get the fuck down!”

 

“Everyone outta the vehicles!”

 

“On the ground!”

 

It’s reassuring, and familial in that everyone loses their collective shit in the same way. Like unearthed insects, the SEP soldiers dive from their humvees and fling themselves down the sides of the ditches adjoining the gravel roads.

 

“Fuckin’ shit bro, where  _ are  _ they?”

“Contact! Contact!”

 

Gabe rolls his eyes and pushes himself up using his elbows. Sweeping his surroundings, a rising dread boils in the back of his mind with Ryder on his left, and Vang at his right rear flank. He blinks harsh once and then again.

 

“Ryder.”

 

Ryder seems to be pointedly ignoring him, as he lets off a few rounds from his pulse rifle. With the rifle pulled so close to his face, the helmet on top of his head rattles around like a wind-up toy held still.

 

“Ryder.” He calls out a bit more harshly, in between shotgun blasts of his own. He may as well be blowing bubbles at the omnics, as his gun is obsolete at this range. 

 

It bothers him. To be categorically useless like this. It does nothing to lessen the tension growing in his shoulders.

 

“--little busy here, boss” Ryder yells out.  More pulse munitions fired in rapid success.

 

“Where the hell is Morrison?”

 

“Up yer ass, normally.” He says, matter-of-factly. Gabe resists the urge to swat his squadmate up the head, with or without the shotgun in his hand.

 

“Left for patrol with Monroe. They never came back.” Vang grits out.

 

_ Left? Monroe too? _ Gabe doesn’t let himself think about the last thing Vang said.

 

Gabe scrambles for the radio sitting on the collar of his jacket. His mind scrambles to remember the frequency and channel numbers for Monroe personal comms.

 

“Alpha Actual, this is Bravo Actual, over.”

 

The grainy static of silence stings his ear.

 

“Mayfly, this is Grim Reaper. Do you read, over.”

 

“Stop tryin’ Reyes! Our comms are screwed six ways to Sunday. Been that way since we got booted off Alpha’s frequency when we ran into Deadlock.”

 

Gabe pinches the mute button maybe a little bit harder than necessary and curses Volkov in his head.

Vang’s alcohol-addled voice of starch grates on Gabe’s nerves further. “I’m seeing two foot-mobiles at my 2 o’clock. Makin’ contact.” With every shot he misses, the turret gunner curses himself into a losing streak.

 

Gabe scuttles on hands and knees over to his struggling squadmate. He is practically on top of Vang’s form when his subordinate tries to explain himself. “I ain’t hitting shit, boss. Frikin’ useless without my turret-- _ Christ _ \--”

 

“Your aim is too low, James.”

 

Gabe is almost beyond surprised at how calm his voice sounds. But his shock wears off quick. It has to. As much as it bothers him, he can’t afford to think about how screwed they are right now. He can’t-- _ won’t _ \--let him think about Monroe and Jack--

 

_ Jack _

 

Poor guy must be out of his mind right now.

 

A medic without a team to keep alive is about as helpful as a fifth wheel on a car.

 

No-- all he can think of is how the missiles of rogue pods plummeting to earth warm his back. And the shotgun blasts warming his face. How the sifting sands despite their instability--grounds him in place all the same. The same uniform he’s been living in for weeks on end is sopped in sweat and sun. it clings to him with all the same reassurance a hug from mamma would give. Looking down the barrel of Vang’s gun, a sensation all its own has Gabe’s senses at a peak. 

 

It has no name. It cannot be measured. It cannot be contained.

 

The fog of war dissipates through the scope of a rifle.

 

He still has a team at his back to protect. And a home ready to be reconquered. That alone will have to be enough, for now.

 

“Raise your barrel a bit….unless you wanna keep shooting at berms and plants.”

 

Gabe sucks in a breath that Vang breathes out as he squeezes the trigger once more. A volley of munitions find their marks. And two faint figures in chrome plating fall to the ground.

 

“You’re not on a turret right now, so keep watch through your sights and trust your aim.”

 

Vang turns his head wordlessly to his leader. A nod and a blink of sobriety from the man is all the thanks Gabe needs.

 

“Good job, James--” Gabe amends, his eyes not leaving the besieged horizon,

 

“You absolute….!  _ Degenerate _ ! Get. Back. Here!” Ryder screeches.

 

Vang huffs and rolls his shoulders,“have fun with that, boss. I’ll take it from here.” He says to Gabe’s retreating form.

 

Ryder is practically at a loss, he wails as he reloads on ammo.

 

“What is your  _ malfunction _ , DD--”

 

“Yohannan hopped the fucking ditch!”

 

Gabe, at a loss, pokes his head up from the lip of the ridge protecting them to see Yohannan hunched over, trotting at a steady pace and stopping to kneel behind the one of the tires of the humvee.

 

The new movement seems to have been all the remaining omnics needed to hone in on their positions, because the horizon line begins to go bumpy with the blottings of steel plated figures approaching.

 

Even as they begin firing, Yohannan can’t seem to help poking his head out. He gazes, open-mouthed and in awe.

 

“Guys! We’ve got OR14’s on us….I can see where they’re firing on us from!”

 

Gabe scrabbles up the side, pulling himself over the edge and abandoning the safety of the ditch, much to Ryder’s horror.

 

“Boss no! I understand  _ Yohannan  _ but--! Come back! You’ve got so much to live for--”

 

“I’m repositioning! Shut the hell up and try to get Camp Herald on the lines. We could use some air support over here.”

 

“But the comms--”

 

“Just get the job done.” Gabe continues his scrabbling on the ground without a look to Ryder.

 

“Got uhhhh three more at our 11 o’clock. By those trees.” Yohannan rattles off directions and distances with nothing more than his raw eyesight. Gabe curls in on himself before slowly raising his form off the ground, sheltering himself beside Yohannan.

 

“Few more about two thousand meters out….” Yohannan squints and frowns, elbowing Gabe almost casually. As if they were bird watching and  _ not  _ getting cornered and shot at.

 

“What do you think, sir?”

 

Gabe stills himself, his brain mouth and hands always moving faster than his brain. Without a word to Yohannan he cups his hands and turns to shout towards the ditch. He has an idea.

 

“Vang! Rosario! Get up on your turrets! Velez and Dodson, cover my guys.”

 

Gabe spots Charlie and Delta squads aimlessly firing over their heads and remaining tucked into the sides of the dusty shallows. Hyro screeches obscenities at his team as he takes pot shots of his own. At this rate, they’ll be lucky if one of them hits a stray dog.

 

_ No one’s shooting any dogs in California, Yohannan. _

 

Gabe shakes his head in encroaching anger.

“Hensen, Camacho-- I want you guys on me.”

 

Giving orders to a team that’s not your own has always yielded a mixed bag of results. With Monroe’s squad, it’s second nature for them to follow Gabes call. As his commands may as well be her own. But with Hyro’s team, there’s a hesitation.

 

“Sherry--I need a medic on stand by up here. Be at the ready.” Gabe’s eyes sweep the remnants of formerly Parata’s team before his sights lock with those of its younger medic.

 

_ Sherry’s squad isn’t your responsibility. _

 

Jack’s words ring through his head like a warning bell. They’re earnest and well-meaning, just like the rest of him is. But the look these peoples eyes tells Gabe that he was still wrong.

 

_ They’re SEP, they’re good people.They’re here fighting the good fight against the omnics just like us.  _

 

“Don’t worry. Everything's going according to plan. We just gotta keep up the defense until we can Oscar Mike out of here. But we could use your help up here to make that possible.”

 

For a moment, the two other teams lying in the ditch go stock-still. Hyro chokes on his own indignation.

 

“Well? What are you guys waiting for?” Gabe allows himself a shit-eating grin that would put Ryder to shame.

 

“The reckoning draws near!”

 

The members of Hyros--- _ Parata’s _ \-- team shoot each other looks of uncertainty until Camacho lets out a whoop and hops over the hill with a grin a mile long on his face. Hensen sputters but launches himself over as well, guns blazing and following hot on Camacho’s heels.

 

There’s a wave of resolution over Sherry’s features. With a customary glance at her squad leader-- she too, trundles over the top and wedges herself between a set of vehicles.

 

She’s still not recovered from her bout of heat exhaustion. But even this common medic, lacking in SEP injections in all, shows more fight in her than her new officer.

 

Hyro practically erupts from anger. But Gabe can’t know for sure as he’s still hiding himself under his own grime and gunfire. Ryder’s technical speak over the comms almost drowns out most of Volkov’s accompanied outrage.

 

“You’re way out of line, Reyes! Worry about your own team!” Your  _ own  _ responsibilities!”

 

_ They certainly are my responsibility. At least, now they are. _

 

Hyro, from a few down the line ceases fire to protest as some of Volkov’s teammates begin hopping over the ridge of the ditch and taking positions behind vehicles and trees.

 

“These are my men, lieutenant! You do not give them orders!”

 

Gabe can’t help the sense of sick satisfaction overtaking him as he turns to face Volkov and Hyro once more. He holsters his shotgun to his side for a moment. With a long sweeping look to his left, than his right, he locks eyes with Hyro, grinning all the while.

 

He raises his hands parallel with his head, with palms facing the sky. He musters up the most exaggerated and dramatic shrug humanly possible,tilting his head just the slightest bit.

 

“Evidently, lieutenant….neither do you.”

 

\---------------------------------

 

A SEP soldier, as the name implies, is not by any stretch of the imagination--a regular infantryman. Every muscle, every bone in their body--some may even argue--a soldiers soul is forever altered by the enhancement program. Their very creation is a testament to how far the military and its personnel are willing to push themselves and one another in the name of defending their home.

 

At least, that’s what was drilled into their heads in Basic.

 

But the gung-ho overtly patriotic jargon SEP fed them all at The Gauntlet rings through his head like a mantra, as Jack and Monroe dash stride for stride, down the beaten backroads of the dusty Californian countryside. The air has grown thick and humid with industrial plumes of blackened smog, only interrupted by streaks of hellish red tears hurtling towards the earth. Each one promises the deliverance of a rogue omnic pod.

 

It’s a good thing the SEP serums have developed their lungs to accept the poisoned air. To a degree.

 

Suddenly, Monroe skids to a stop, reaching out for jack and halting him with a strong grip. He nearly falls over with the action.

 

“Wait--wait”, Monroe coughs out. “Hold on. The squads should be just over that hill.”

 

“So? Why are we stopping? They need our help.  _ Gabe _ \--”

 

“ _ Listen _ .” She hisses out. Tugging Jack backwards again by the collar of his jacket. He huffs at her, like a disgruntled dog pulled back by the leash.

 

“Do you  _ hear  _ that?” She asks in a whisper.

 

Jack grabs Monroe’s hands and wrenches it off his neck. “ _ No _ ? I don’t hear any--”

 

His mouth stops working at the same time his brain does. Monroe has a growing look of stilted reassurance that has him growing worried by the seconds. She reaches out to him, cupping her hand at the back of his head.

 

“...thing.”

 

He pulls away again. Instantly regretting doing so. The palm of her hand was steady but cool; liberatingly so. When she takes her hand back, the her palm is splotched un ugly brown and red.

 

“Ma’am. We should still go. The fight ain’t over yet.” Jack grits out before he rounds the hill, starting his descent onto the berms and plains below.

 

There’s a looming bout of smog that lingers just above the horizon line. It coats the burned out supply truck and the adjoining carts behind it in a thin casing of grime. Overturned crates are surrounded by shell casings.

 

Jack drops down into the roadside ditches flanking the truck and kneels to the ground, sifting for anything useful or telling in the dirt. He ignores purposeful footsteps behind him.

 

He’s just about rifled through half of the ditch when the sister squad leader calls his attention.

 

“Morrison! C’mere. Think I got something.”

 

He’s on his feet on an instant; hoping Monroe isn’t going to waste his time with bad news or worse--no news. Jack is about halfway out of the hole when he loses his footing alongside the swelling of the dusty divots. In a moment of base panic he jumps back down into the trench. Something instantly gives under his weight and the telling crackling of plastic has him inspecting the ground again. A little bit of digging and Jack has it; cradled in his hands are a pair of weather worn pink sunglasses. It’s fram is striped with shades of pale blue and dotted by little decals of white kittens with red bows.

 

Ryder.

 

Jack kicks himself as he gently folds the pair up, inspecting broken lens a last time before tucking it securly within the folds on his breast pocket, right over his heart-- next to where Gabe’s handkerchief should be.

 

“Morrison, what’s keeping you?”

 

Monroe pokes her head to peer down at him. She offers both hands, which Jack takes gratefully. With all the skill of a practised parent, she hauls him out of the channel the way a mother hauls her baby to stand upright after their failed first steps.

 

“This way.”

 

As they near on the defunct supply truck, Monroe kneels, pressing a hand to a bundle wedged between the front hood of the vehicle and one of the squad humvees.

 

“Look. This is Sherry’s. All her med supplies--biotic emitters--biopatches...everything.” She turns up to face him.

 

“A medic doesn’t leave their tools behind--sure, a soldier can still operate without a gun if pressed, and a leader can lead even without the shirt on their back but med personnel….?”

 

Jack nods in agreement. “They left in a hurry. Must’ve been hard pressed too. Left behind the whole supply truck while they were at it….” His gaze lingers on the shredded tarping that was once the trucks roofing. Thick, decisive cuts through the fabric points to a hostile aggressor. One with melee, and long-distance capabilities; if the adjoining bullet holes are anything to go by. These soldiers wouldn’t have let an omnic skilled in only one or the other get so close.

 

Monroe keeps on her train of thought, stuffing unused biotic fields into her ruckbag.

“Can you smell that, Morrison?”

Jack takes in a deep breath. Under all the smog, there’s a tang of something acrid and sour, something only SEP-enhanced senses could pick up on. The particles in the air itself seems charged, making the fair hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

 

“Smells like victory. And freedom. And bald eagles.” He amends, exhaling.

 

“You jackass.” Monroe snorts out. The squad leaders laughter bubbles from her throat between her gasps for clean air that don’t exist.

 

“What? I could’ve made that way worse--by like--making a reference to ‘Apocolypse Now’ or something….” Jack stops in thought.

 

“Morrison. Seriously you don’t smell all that--”

 

“I love the smell of pulse munitions in the morning.”

 

“Good God, Blondie. And Ryder told me you were devoid of a sense a humor.”

 

Jack shakes his head, walking up and down the sides of the truck, investigating the cuts and holes further. He presses some empty shell cases from the ditch through the holes, trying to match up who shot what.

 

“Yea? Well Ryder is  _ devoid  _ of a brain so I really don’t wanna hear--”

 

“Funny thing you say that, Boy Scout…...Reyes said the same thing about you.” 

 

“Wh--” The shell casing from a pulse rifle falls through the hole. Too small. It clatters inside the truck. Jack cranes his neck to get a view of Monroe that is impossible to achieve.

 

“He said that about me too…? Thinks I’m stupid?”

 

Monroe groans. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! You know how childish you sound when you say it like that?”

 

“He thinks I’m an idiot.” Jack amends, again. His face falls, and his neck tingles with a small bout of cold shame. He tries the next bullet casing, taken from near one of the turrets, and forces it through the hole in the tarping with much more force. The casing is too big, it tears a bigger hole through the tarp. The fabrics edges are as frayed as Jack’s nerves.

 

“ _ No _ ? He said you  _ acted  _ like you didn’t have a brain in that blond head of yours. You and the rest of your team.”

 

He wishes he found Monroe’s comment more relieving than it was.

 

“He told me about the Rice Cooker….. _ thing _ that happened. That’s when it came up. So stop jumping to conclusions all the damn time.”

 

“I’m not  _ jumping  _ to--”

 

“ First you assume there’s something between me ‘n him. And now? You’re looking to be offended merely at what he  _ might _ think of you--”

 

Jack sputters, immediately offended at the remark. He tries another bullet, different from the others; its chrome cartridge is rimmed with a branding of neon blue. He forces it through a fresher bullet hole adjacent to the last one. It slips through-- a perfect fit. However he doesn’t hear it clatter to the ground on the inside.

 

“You’re grasping at straws, Jack. I just need to figure out the ‘why’ now.”

 

Jack rolls his eyes, and stomps around to check the seized engine from the other side of the hood. His charged boot stomps tromp out the indents of prints belonging to neither them, nor any other human. With Monroe so close now he can her mumbling something under her breath.

 

“Pardon, ma’am? Didn’t catch that last part.” He spits with maybe too much venom, he admits.

 

Monroe rounds on him, shooting up and grabbing the raised hood to the truck with both hands.  She slams the hood down; and the noise is angry and brutal by nature and nurture. It reverberates through the electrified air around them. She glares at him, head on, all teeth.

 

It makes him jump back.

 

_ This division is real good at sniffing out discomfort, and right about now, you reek of it _

 

“I  _ said _ \-- I don’t know what Gabe sees in you sometimes.”

 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jack says, his face, reddening. But not from anger or shame.

 

“Whatever you want it to mean, sergeant.”

 

She turns on him and begins to walk away, “God knows you’ll take it your own way, anyway.” 

 

There’s a pause, and Jack decides to let the sister squad leader have the final word.

 

“We should start heading for Morgan Hill. That was the next checkpoint. Or it was supposed to be. With any luck….we’ll meet a few stragglers who’ll tell us what happened here.”

 

“So we’re just leaving this all behind? Shouldn’t we look around a little bit more?”

 

She dismisses him with a handwave, still turned away from him.

“Do what you want medic.There should be some biotic fields behind for you to take. As soon as your done preening, we’ll head out.”

 

Jack nods to himself. “That sounds fine--”

 

“If that’s okay with  _ you _ , that is.”

 

Jack sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes, ma’am,” he grits.

 

_ God, what a Gabe thing to do…...is this how he feels dealing with Ryder all the time? _

 

Jack putters in place, skimming the humvee and Sherry’s bundle for the biotic field that aren’t there.

 

“Where’d you say you would put ‘em ma’am?”

 

“Up your ass, normally.”

 

Jack doesn’t even both to point a stare in her direction.

 

“They might be in the supply truck itself; didn’t bother to actually go inside yet--most of the supplies in there probably expired when everyone started punching bullet holes through ‘em.”

 

“Acknowledged”, Jack says with the shake of his head.

 

He trudges in another line down the span of the truck. Following in the footsteps of others before him. The prints look almost look avian or mammalian in nature. Maybe even resembling hooves. He ignores them and rounds towards the back on the truck. His gloves have dried stiff on his hands, the dried dirt flaking off them in clumps as he seizes the two back flaps of the tarping. With a frustrated flourish he pulls back the fabric. He eyes scanning for somewhere to put a foothold on the elevated back ramping.

 

Two sets of eyes the color of postage-stamp cardinals bore down into his own. They are flanked by the luminescent glittering of two smaller gun barrels paralleling one another on both sides of its oblong head. The barrel of a minigun is pressed to his chest as the eyes get closer. In the dim lighting of the barren vehicle, A shambling figure, all sleek black and industrial orange plating leers closer, shuffling on two sets of legs into the brighter light of the outside. The bottom piece of what he assumes is a jaw detaches from the main portion of its head; revealing unequal rows of jagged ‘teeth’, made up of repurposed drill bits and metal scraps distorted beyond recognition. As it shifts and totters, adjusting itself to moving, Jack can only keep tilting his head up to take in its full height. Even if it hadn’t been resting on a trucks platform from above, the machine still towers over him by over a foot. More and more, Jack forces himself to take in its full form, his neck stock-straight, as if it’s being held in place, force feeding his eyes its predatory glare of stark red. His mouth slowly opens as it adjusts to entirely tower over him.

 

It lets out a bone-rattling screech as it raises its other arm-- _ arm? _ \--arm.

 

Jack’s brain screams at him to do something-- _ anything _ \--but his legs only move him back by a fraction. This causes the omnic to let out another harsh, piercing cry; akin to nails on a chalkboard in terms of pleasantness. It raises the appendage toting the minigun in warning. His brain gets the message. Jack fails to swallow down the lump of primal dread in his throat.

 

With a mere flick of its joints a large blade of sunset-colored energy is emitted from its other appendage. It raises the sword in a exaggerated motion above its head, its whole body swaying with the motion.

 

As the blade swings down to meet Jack’s head, he scrabbles to think of something and nothing all at once.

 

One thought, as silly, as pointless as he thinks it may be rears its head to overshadow all others, in what he could only explain as a moment of weakness or sentimentality;

  
  


He wishes Monroe had left Gabe’s handkerchief with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

**Author's Note:**

> 0400 hours- 4:00 a.m.  
> IED-Improvised Explosive Device  
> 'Lock it up'- Basically means shut up  
> L.T.- Nickname for Lieutenant  
> CRO-Combat Rescue Officer  
> klicks- Kilometers  
> MTO-Motor Transport Operator
> 
> chat me up sometime on tumblr<3


End file.
